alifamia  State 


Prcnentrd  'hi/ 


i^    Date  Receireif 


C5V  «V 


No. 


4-U^^ 


From 


,lf7  prfHrrihlii;/   ]iidv»  for  the   ISorf.ruintiit  of  the  State  Llhrnrff.     ||| 
paited  Monh  Sth,   1861.  Vl 


Section"  11.  The  Librarian  .«hall  cau.xe  to  be  kci»t  a  rejrister  i)f  all 
hooks  iiisHvd  and  returned  ;  and  all  books'  taken  by  the  members  of  the 
Legislature,  or  its  officers,  .shall  be  returned  at  the  close  of  the  ."c^sion.  If 
any  person  injure  or  fail  to  return  any  book  taken  from  the  Library,  he 
shall  forfeit  and  pay  to  the  Librarian,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Library,  three 
times  the  value  thereof;  and  before  the  Controller  .<hall  issue  his  warrant 
in  favor  of  any  member  or  officer  of  the  Legislature,  or  of  this  State,  for 
his  |)er  diem  allowance  or  salary,  he  shall  be  .satisfied  that  such  member  or 
officer  has  returned  all  books  taken  out  of  the  Library  by  him.  and  has 
settled  all  accounts  for  injuring  such  books  or  otherwise. 

Sec.  1.5.  Books  may  be  taken  from  the  Library  l>y  the  members  of  the 
Legislature  and  its  officers  during  the  session  of  the  same,  »n<l  at  any  time 
by  the  (iovcrnor  and  tlie  officers  of  the  Executive  Department  of  this  State, 
who  are  reijuired  to  keep  their  offices  at  the  seat  of  government  ;  the  Jus- 
tices of  the  Supreme  Court:  the  Attorncy-tteneral  ;  and  the  Trustees  of 
the  Library. 


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Br 


MRS.    NEWTON   CROSLAND. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,   REED,   AND   FIELDS. 

MDCCCLIII. 


*     Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 
TicKNOK,  Reed,  and  Fields, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


THUBSTOK,  TOKET,  ASD  BUERSON,  PBINTEKS. 


SRLE 
URU 


0^^q^^5\0 


TO 

My  Dear  Friend, 

KNOWN   IN   AMERICA    AND    ENGLAND    AS 

GRACE    GREENWOOD, 

I     INSCRIBE     THIS     LITTLE     VOLUME, 

AND     BEG    HER     TO    ACCEPT     THE     DEDICATION 

AS   A   FEEBLE   TRIBUTE   OP 

MY     ADMIRATION     OF     HER     GENIUS, 

AND   AFFECTION   FOR   HERSELF. 

c.  c. 

Blackheathf  August,  1852. 


CONTENTS. 

Lady  Lucy's  Secret            .            .            .            .  1 

Geraldine  —  A  Life       ....  17 
The  Shawl  Buyer               .            .            .            .68 

The  BtACK  Sheep  of  the  Family    ^  .            .  84 

Haunted  Houses      .....  124 

The  Hartsdale  Vindicator     .             .             .  132 
The  Tempters  and  the  Tempted  .            .            .153 

A  Tale  that  was  Told  to  Me          .            .  169 

The  Story  of  a  Picture    ....  188 

Working  Gentlewomen             .            .            .  203 

Mrs.  Smith  and  Mrs.  Brown         .            .            .  213 

The  Merchant's  Clerk            .            .            .  223 

Our  New  Shops       .....  249 

A  Story  of  Ways  and  Means            .            .  267 

Our  Philosopher's  Dream  ....  282 

The  Neglected  Child  ....  296 


ENGLISH  TALES  AND   SKETCHES. 


LADY   LUCY'S    SECRET. 

'  With  clamorous  demands  of  debt,  brokea  bonds, 
And  the  detention  of  long-since-due  debts, 
Against  my  honor.' — Timon  op  Athems. 

•  How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand, 
Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth,  and  one  hand  V 

LONGF£LLOW. 

In  a  charming  morning-room  of  a  charming  London 
house,  neighboring  Hyde-Park,  there  lounged  over  the 
breakfast-table  a  wedded  pair,  —  the  rich  merchant 
Ferrars,  and  his  young  wife,  the  Lady  Lucy.  Five 
years  of  married  life  had,  in  most  respects,  more  than 
realized  the  brightest  hopes  which  had  been  born  and 
cherished  in  the  dreaming  days  of  courtship.  Till  the 
age  of  forty,  the  active  mind  of  Walter  Ferrars  had 
been  chiefly  occupied  by  business,  —  not  in  mean, 
shuffling,  speculative  dealings,  but  on  the  broad  basis 
of  large  transactions  and  an  almost  chivalrous  system 
of  integrity. 

Then,  when  a  secured  position  and  the  privileges 
of  wealth  had  introduced  him  to  that  inner  circle  of 
English  society  which  not  wealth  alone  can  penetrate, 
1 


54  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

but  where  wealth  in  some  due  proportion  is  an  element 
necessary  to  hold  fast  a  place,  it  was  thought  most 
natural  and  proper  that  he  should  choose  a  wife  from 
the  class  which  seems  set  apart  from  the  rest  of 
womankind  like  the  choice  flowers  of  a  conservatory, 
on  whom  no  rude  breath  must  blow.  The  youthful, 
but  nearly  portionless,  d^iughter  of  a  poor  Earl  seemed 
the  very  bride  decreed  by  some  good  angel  for  the 
merchant-prince. 

But  though  the  nuptials  fulfilled  nearly  all  the  re- 
quirements of  a  mariage  de  convenance,  there  was  in 
reality  very  much  more  of  the  ingredients  in  their 
hearts  which  amalgamate  into  very  genuine  '  love,' 
than  always  meet  at  the  altar ;  though  of  course  '  the 
World '  resolutely  refused  to  believe  anything  of  the 
sort — the  World,  which  is  capable  of  so  much  kind- 
ness, and  goodness,  and  justice,  among  its  individuals, 
taken  '  separately  and  singly,'  and  yet  is  such  a  false, 
malignant,  many-headed  monster  in  its  corporate  body  ! 
Walter  Ferrars  had  a  warm  heart,  that  yearned  for 
affection,  as  well  as  a  clear  head  ;  and,  fascinated  as 
he  had  been  by  the  youthful  grace  and  beauty,  the 
high-bred  repose  of  manner,  and  cultivated  talents  of 
the  Lady  Lucy,  he  set  himself  resolutely  to  win  and 
keep  her  girlish  heart,  not  expecting  that  the  man  of 
forty  was  to  obtain  it  without  an  effort.  Thus,  when 
he  assumed  a  husband's  name,  he  did  not  *  drop  the 
lover.'  His  was  still  the  watchful  care,  made  up  of 
the  thousand  little  thoughtful  kindnesses  of  daily-life, 
neither  relaxed  in  a  tete'd-tete,  nor  increased  in  public. 
He  was  the  pleased  and  ready  escort  for  every  occa- 
sion, save  only  when  some  imperative  business  claimed 


LADY  Lucy's  secret.  9 

his  time  and  presence ;  and  these  calls  now  were  rare, 
for  he  had  long  since  arrived  at  the  position  when 
efficient  servants  and  assistants  carry  out  the  plans  a 
superior  has  organized. 

Is  there  wonder  that  the  wife  was  grateful  ?  Few  — 
few  women  indeed  are  insensible  to  the  power  of  con- 
tinued kindness  ;  they  may  have  a  heart  of  stone  for 
the  impetuous  impulsive  lover,  but  habitual  tenderness 
— that  seems  so  unselfish  —  touches  the  finest  chords 
of  their  nature,  and  awakens  affection  that  might  have 
lain  dormant  through  a  long  life,  but  for  this  one  sweet 
influence.  Thus  it  was  that  the  wife  of  five  years 
loved  her  husband  with  an  almost  adoring  worship. 
She  had  felt  her  own  mind  expand  in  the  intimate 
communion  with  his  fine  intellect ;  she  had  felt  her 
own  weaknesses  grow  less,  as  if  she  had  absorbed 
some  of  his  strength  of  character ;  and  she  had  re- 
cognised the  very  dawn  of  principles  and  opinions 
which  had  been  unknown  to  her  in  the  days  of  her 
thoughtless,  ignorant,  inexperienced  girlhood.  And 
yet  with  all  her  love,  with  all  her  matured  intelligence, 
she  had  never  lost  a  certain  awe  of  her  husband,  which 
his  seniority  had  perhaps  first  implanted,  and  alas!  one 
fatal  circumstance  had  gone  far  to  render  morbid. 

They  sat  at  breakfast.  It  was  early  spring,  and 
though  the  sunshine  streamed  through  the  windows, 
and  from  one  of  them  there  crept  the  odors  of  the  con- 
servatory, a  bright  fire  gleamed  and  crackled  in  the 
grate,  and  shed  a  charm  of  cheerfulness  through  the 
room.  Mr.  Ferrars  had  a  newspaper  in  his  hand,  but 
not  yet  had  he  perused  a  line,  for  his  son  and  heir,  a 
brave  boy  of  three  years  old,  a  very  model  of  patrician 


4  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

beauty,  was  climbing  his  large  chair,  playing  antics  of 
many  sorts,  and  even  affecting  to  pull  his  father's  still 
rich  and  curling  hair,  so  little  awe  had  the  young 
Walter  of  the  head  of  the  house  —  while  Mr.  Ferrars' 
parental  glee  was  like  a  deep  bass  to  the  child's  crow- 
ing laugh.  Lady  Lucy  smiled  too,  but  she  shook  her 
head,  and  said  more  than  once,  '  Naughty  papa  is 
spoiling  Watty.'  It  was  a  pretty  scene  ;  the  room  was 
redolent  of  elegance,  and  the  young  mother,  in  her 
exquisitely  simple  but  tasteful  morning  dress,  was 
one  of  its  chief  ornaments.  Who  would  think  that 
beneath  all  this  sweetness  of  life  there  was  still  a 
serpent ! 

A  post  was  just  in,  and  a  servant  entered  with 
several  letters;  among  those  delivered  to  Lady  Lucy 
were  two  or  three  large  unsightly,  ill-shaped  epistles, 
that  seemed  strange  company  for  the  others.  An  ob- 
serving stranger  might  have  noticed  that  Lady  Lucy's 
cheek  paled,  and  then  flushed  ;  that  she  crushed  up 
her  letters  together,  without  immediately  opening 
them,  and  that  presently  she  slid  the  ugly  ones  into 
the  pocket  of  her  satin  apron.  Mr.  Ferrars  read  his 
almost  with  a  glance  —  for  they  were  masculine  let- 
ters, laconic,  and  to  the  point,  conveying  necessary 
information,  in  three  lines  and  a  half — and  he  smiled, 
as  after  a  while  he  observed  his  wife  apparently  intent 
on  a  truly  feminine  epistle  —  four  sides  of  delicate 
paper  closely  crossed  —  and  exclaimed  gaily, 

'  My  dear  Lucy,  there's  an  hour's  reading  for  you, 
at  least ;  so  I  shall  ring  and  send  Watty  to  the  nursery, 
and  settle  steadily  to  the  Times.'* 

But  though  Lady  Lucy  really  perused  the  letter, 


LADY    LIJCy's    SECRET.  9 

her  mind  refused  to  retain  the  pleasant  chit-chat  gossip 
it  contained.  Her  thoughts  were  far  away,  and  had 
she  narrowly  examined  her  motives,  she  would  have 
known  that  she  bent  over  the  friendly  sheet  chiefly  as 
an  excuse  for  silence,  and  to  conceal  her  passing 
emotions.  Meanwhile  the  newspaper  gently  crackled 
in  her  husband's  hand  as  he  moved  its  broad  leaves. 

Presently  Mr.  Ferrars  started  with  an  exclamation 
of  grief  and  astonishment  that  completely  roused  his 
absent  wife. 

'  My  dear  Walter,  what  has  happened  ? '  she  asked, 
with  real  anxiety. 

'  A  man  a  bankrupt,  whom  I  thought  as  safe  as  the 
Bank  of  England.  Though  it  is  true,  people  talked 
about  him  months  ago  —  spoke  suspiciously  of  his  per- 
sonal extravagance,  and,  above  all,  said  that  his  wife 
was  ruining  him.' 

'  His  wife  1 ' 

'  Yes ;  but  I  cannot  understand  that  sort  of  thing. 
A  few  hundreds  a  year  more  or  less  could  be  of  little 
moment  to  a  man  like  Beaufort,  and  I  don't  suppose 
she  spent  more  than  you  do,  my  darling.  At  any  rate, 
she  was  never  better  dressed.  Yet  I  believe  the  truth 
was,  that  she  got  frightfully  into  debt  unknown  to  him  ; 
and  debt  is  a  sort  of  thing  that  multiplies  itself  in  a 
most  astonishing  manner,  and  sows  by  the  wayside  the 
seeds  of  all  sorts  of  misery.  Then  people  say  that 
when  pay-day  came  at  last,  bickerings  ensued,  their 
domestic  happiness  was  broken  up,  Beaufort  grew 
reckless,  and  plunged  into  the  excitement  of  the  mad- 
dest speculations.' 

'  How  dreadful ! '   murmured  Lady  Lucy.* 


6  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

'  Dreadful,  indeed  !  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do 
with  such  a  wife.' 

'  Would  not  you  forgive  her  if  you  loved  her  very 
much  ?  '  asked  Lady  Lucy,  and  she  spoke  in  the  sin- 
gularly calnn  tone  of  suppressed  emotion. 

'  Once,  perhaps,  once ;  and  if  her  fault  were  the 
fault  of  youthful  inexperience, — but  so  much  false- 
ness, mean  deception,  and  mental  deterioration  must 
have  accompanied  such  transactions,  that  —  in  short,  I 
thank  Heaven  that  I  have  never  been  put  to  the  trial.' 

As  he  spoke,  the  eyes  of  Mr,  Ferrars  were  fixed  on 
the  leading  article  of  the  Times,  not  on  his  wife. 
Presently  Lady  Lucy  glided  from  the  room,  without 
her  absence  being  at  the  moment  observed.  Once  in 
her  dressing-room,  she  turned  the  key,  and  sinking 
into  a  low  chair,  gave  vent  to  her  grief  in  some  of  the 
bitterest  tears  she  had  ever  shed.  She,  too,  was  in 
debt ;  '  frightfully,'  her  husband  had  used  the  right 
word ;  '  hopelessly,'  so  far  as  satisfying  her  creditors, 
even  out  of  the  large  allowance  Mr.  Ferrars  made  her  ; 
and  still  she  had  not  the  courage  voluntarily  to  tell 
the  truth,  which  yet  she  knew  must  burst  upon  him  ere 
long.  From  what  small  beginnings  had  this  Upas 
shadow  come  upon  her !  And  what  '  falseness,  mean 
deception,  and  mental  deterioration '  had  truly  been 
hers! 

Even  the  fancied  relief  of  weeping  was  a  luxury 
denied  to  her,  for  she  feared  to  show  the  evidence  of 
tears ;  thus  after  a  little  while  she  strove  to  drive 
them  back,  and  by  bathing  her  face  before  the  glass, 
and  drawing  the  braids  of  her  soft  hair  a  little  nearer 
her  eyes,  she  was  tolerably  successful  in  hiding  their 


LADY  Lucy's  secret.  7 

trace.  Never,  when  dressing  for  court  or  gala,  had 
she  consulted  her  mirror  so  closely  ;  and  now,  though 
the  tears  were  dried,  she  was  shocked  at  the  lines  of 
anguish  —  those  delvers  of  the  wrinkles  of  age  — which 
marked  her  countenance.  She  sat  before  her  looking- 
glass,  one  hand  supporting  her  head,  the  othe  rclutch- 
ingthe  hidden  letters  which  she  had  not  yet  the  courage 
to  open.     There  was  a  light  tap  at  the  door. 

'  Who  is  there  ? '    inquired  Lady  Lucy. 

'  It  is  I,  my  lady,'  replied  Harris,  her  faithful  maid. 
'  Madame  Dalmas  is  here.' 

Lady  Lucy  unlocked  her  door,  and  gave  orders  that 
the  visitor  should  be  shown  up.  With  the  name  had 
come  a  flush  of  hope  that  some  trifling  temporary  help 
would  be  hers.  Madame  Dalmas  called  herself  a 
Frenchwoman,  and  signed  herself  '  Antoinette,'  but 
she  was  really  an  English  Jewess  of  low  extraction, 
whose  true  name  was  Sarah  Solomons.  Her  '  pro- 
fession '  was  to  purchase  —  and  sell  —  the  cast-ofF 
apparel  of  ladies  of  fashion  ;  and  few  of  the  sisterhood 
have  carried  the  art  of  double  cheating  to  so  great  a 
proficiency.  With  always  a  roll  of  bank  notes  in  her 
old  leathern  pocket-book,  and  always  a  dirty  canvas 
bag  full  of  bright  sovereigns  in  her  pocket,  she  had 
ever  the  subtle  temptation  for  her  victims  ready. 

Madame  Dalmas  —  for  she  must  be  called  according 
to  the  name  engraved  on  her  card  —  was  a  little 
meanly-dressed  woman  of  about  forty,  with  bright  eyes 
and  a  hooked  nose,  a  restless  shuffling  manner,  and  an 
ill-pitched  voice.  Her  jargon  was  a  mixture  of  bad 
French  and  worse  English. 

*  Bon  jour   miladi   Lucy, '   she   exclaimed   as  she 


8  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

entered  Lady  Lucy's  sanctum,  '  need  not  inquire  of 
health,  you  look  si  charmante.  Oh,  si  belle  !  —  that 
make  you  wear  old  clothes  so  longer  dan  oder  ladies, 
and  have  so  leetel  for  me  to  buy.  Milady  Lucy 
Ferrars  know  she  look  well  in  anyting,  but  yet  she 
should  not  wear  old  clothes:  no  right  —  for  example 
—  for  de  trade,  and  de  hoosband  always  like  de  wife 
well  dressed  —  ha  —  ha  ! ' 

Poor  Lady  Lucy !  Too  sick  at  heart  to  have  any 
relish  for  Madame  Dalmas'  nauseous  compliments, 
and  more  than  half  aware  of  her  cheats  and  false- 
hoods, she  yet  tolerated  the  creature  from  her  own  dire 
necessities. 

*  Sit  down,  Madame  Dalmas,'  she  said,  '  I  am 
dreadfully  in  want  of  money  ;  but  I  really  don't  know 
what  I  have  for  you.' 

'  De  green  velvet,  which  you  not  let  me  have  before 
Easter,  1  still  give  you  four  pounds  for  it,  though 
perhaps  you  worn  it  very  much  since  then.' 

'  Only  twice  —  only  seven  times  in  all  —  and  it  cost 
me  twenty  guineas,'  sighed  Lady  Lucy. 

'  Ah,  but  so  old-fashioned  —  I  do  believe  I  not  see 
my  money  for  it.  Voyez-vous,  de  Lady  Lucy  is  one 
petite  lady  —  si  jolie  mais  tres  petite.  If  she  were  de 
tall  grand  lady,  you  see  de  great  dresses  could  fit  small 
lady,  but  de  leetle  dresses  fit  but  ver  few.' 

'  If  I  sell  the  green  velvet  I  must  have  another  next 
winter,'  murmured  Lady  Lucy. 

'  Ah  !  —  vous  avez  raison  —  when  de  season  nou- 
veautes  come  in.  I  tell  you  what  —  you  let  me  have 
also  de  white  lace  robe  you  show  me  once,  the  same 
time  I  bought  from  you  one  little  old  pearl  brooch.' 


LADY   LUCY  S    SECRET.  V 

'  My  wedding-dress  ?  Oh  no,  I  cannot  sell  my  wed- 
ding-dress ! '  exclaimed  poor  Lady  Lucy,  pressing  her 
hands  convulsively  together. 

'  What  for  not  ?  —  you  not  want  to  marry  over  again 
—  I  give  you  twenty-two  pounds  for  it.' 

'  Twenty -two  pounds  !  —  why,  it  is  Brussels  point, 
and  cost  a  hundred  and  twenty.' 

'Ah,  I  know  —  but  you  forget  I  perhaps  keep  it  ten 
years  and  not  sell  —  and  besides  you  buy  dear  ;  great 
lady  often  buy  ver  dear ! '  and  Madame  Dalmas  shook 
her  head  with  the  solemnity  of  a  sage. 

'No,  no;  I  cannot  sell  my  wedding-dress,'  again 
murmured  the  wife.  And  be  it  recorded  the  temptress, 
for  once,  was  baffled  ;  but,  at  the  expiration  of  an  hour, 
Madame  Dalmas  left  the  house,  with  a  huge  bundle 
under  her  arm,  and  a  quiet  satisfaction  revealed  in  her 
countenance,  had  any  one  thought  it  worth  while  to 
study  the  expression  of  her  disagreeable  face. 

Again  Lady  Lucy  locked  her  door,  and  placing  a 
bank  note  and  some  sovereigns  on  the  table,  she  sank 
into  a  low  chair,  and  while  a  few  large  silent  tears 
flowed  down  her  cheeks,  she  at  last  found  courage  to 
open  the  three  letters  which  had  hitherto  remained,  un- 
read, in  her  apron  pocket.  The  first,  —  the  second 
seemed  to  contain  nothing  to  surprise  her,  however 
much  there  might  be  to  annoy  ;  but  it  was  different 
with  the  last ;  here  was  a  gross  overcharge,  and  per- 
haps it  was  not  with  quite  a  disagreeable  feeling  that 
Lady  Lucy  found  something  of  which  she  could  justly 
complain.  She  rose  hurriedly  and  unlocked  a  small 
writing-desk,  which  had  long  been  used  as  a  receptacle 
for  old  letters  and  accounts. 


10  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  interior  of  the  desk  did  not  pre- 
sent a  very  orderly  arrangement.  Cards  of  address, 
bills  paid  and  unpaid,  copies  of  verses,  and  papers  of 
many  descriptions,  were  huddled  together,  and  it  was 
not  by  any  means  surprising  that  Lady  Lucy  failed  in 
her  search  for  the  original  account  by  which  to  rectify 
the  error  in  her  shoemaker's  bill.  In  the  hurry  and 
nervous  trepidation  which  had  latterly  become  almost 
a  constitutional  ailment  with  her,  she  turned  out  the 
contents  of  the  writing-desk  into  an  easy  chair,  and 
then  kneeling  before  it,  she  set  herself  to  the  task  of 
carefully  examining  the  papers.  Soon  she  came  to 
one  letter  which  had  been  little  expected  in  that  place, 
and  which  still  bore  the  marks  of  a  rose,  whose  withered 
leaves  also  remained,  that  had  been  put  away  in  its 
folds.  The  rose  Walter  Ferrars  had  given  her  on  the 
eve  of  their  marriage,  and  the  letter  was  in  his  hand- 
writing, and  bore  but  a  few  days  earlier  date.  With 
quickened  pulses  she  opened  the  envelope,  and  though 
a  mist  rose  before  her  eyes,  it  seemed  to  form  into  a 
mirror  in  which  she  saw  the  by-gone  hours.  And  so 
she  read  —  and  read. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  laugh  at  love-letters,  perhaps  be- 
cause only  the  silly  ones  ever  come  to  light.  With  the 
noblest  of  both  sexes  such  effusions  are  sacred,  and 
would  be  profaned  by  the  perusal  of  a  third  person  ;  but 
when  a  warm  and  true  heart  is  joined  to  a  manly  intel- 
lect; when  reason  sanctions  and  constancy  maintains 
the  choice  which  has  been  made,  there  is  little  doubt 
that  much  of  simple,  truthful,  touching  eloquence  is 
often  to  be  found  in  a  '  lover's '  letter.  That  which  the 
wife  now  perused  with  strange  and  mingled  feelings 


LADY  Lucy's  secket.  11 

was  evidently  a  reply  to  some  girlish  depreciation  of 
herself,  and  contained  these  words  :  — 

'  You  tell  me  that  in  the  scanty  years  of  your  past 
life,  you  already  look  back  on  a  hundred  follies,  and 
that  you  have  unnumbered  faults  of  character  at  which 
I  do  not  even  guess.  Making  some  allowance  for  a 
figurative  expression,  I  will  answer  "  it  may  be  so." 
What  then  ?  I  have  never  called  you  an  angel,  and 
never  desired  you  to  be  perfect.  The  weaknesses 
which  cling,  tendril-like,  to  a  fine  nature,  not  unfre- 
quently  bind  us  to  it  by  ties  we  do  not  seek  to  sever.  I 
know  you  for  a  true-hearted  girl,  but  with  the  bitter 
lessons  of  life  still  unlearned  ;  let  it  be  ray  part  to 
shield  you  from  their  sad  knowledge,  —  yet  whatever 
sorrow  or  evil  falls  upon  you,  I  must  or  ought  to  share. 
Let  us  have  no  secrets;  and  while  the  Truth  which 
gives  its  purest  lustre  to  your  eye,  and  its  richest  rose 
to  your  cheek,  still  reigns  in  your  soul,  I  cannot  dream 
of  a  fault  grave  enough  to  deserve  harsher  rebuke  than 
the  kiss  of  forgiveness.' 

What  lines  to  read  at  such  a  moment !  No  wonder 
their  meaning  reached  her  mind  far  differently  than  it 
had  done  when  they  were  first  received.  Then  she 
could  have  little  heeded  it ;  witness  how  carelessly  the 
letter  had  been  put  away  —  how  forgotten  had  been  its 
contents. 

Her  tears  flowed  in  torrents,  but  Lucy  Ferrars  no 
longer  strove  to  check  them.  And  yet  there  gleamed 
through  them  a  brighter  smile  than  had  visited  her 
countenance  for  many  a  month.  A  resolve  approved 
by  all  her  better  nature  was  growing  firm  within  her 
heart;   and  that  which  an  hour  before   would  have 


12  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

seemed  too  dreadful  to  contemplate  was  losing  half  its 
terrors.  How  often  an  ascent,  which  looks  in  the  dis- 
tance a  bare  precipice,  shows  us,  when  we  approach  its 
face,  the  notches  by  which  we  may  climb  !  —  and  not 
a  few  of  the  difficulties  of  life  yield  to  our  will  when  we 
bravely  encounter  them. 

'  Why  did  I  fear  him  so  much  ?  '  murmured  Lady 
Lucy  to  herself.  '  I  ought  not  to  have  needed  such  an 
assurance  as  this  to  throw  myself  at  his  feet,  and  bear 
even  scorn  and  rebuke,  rather  than  prolong  the  reign  of 
falsehood  and  deceit.  Yes  —  yes,'  and  gathering  a 
heap  of  papers  in  her  hand  with  the  'love-letter'  be- 
neath them,  she  descended  the  stairs. 

There  is  no  denying  that  Lady  Lucy  paused  at  the 
library  door  —  no  denying  that  her  heart  beat  quickly, 
and  her  breath  seemed  well-nigh  spent ;  but  she  was 
right  to  act  on  the  good  impulse,  and  not  wait  until  the 
new-born  courage  should  sink. 

Mr.  Ferrars  had  finished  the  newspaper,  and  was 
writing  an  important  note ;  his  back  was  to  the  door, 
and  hearing  the  rustle  of  his  wife's  dress,  and  knowing 
her  step,  he  did  not  turn  his  head  sufficiently  to  observe 
her  countenance,  but  he  said,  good-humoredly, 

*  At  last !  What  have  you  been  about  ?  I  thought  we 
were  to  go  out  before  luncheon  to  look  at  the  bracelet 
I  mentioned  to  you.' 

'  No,  Walter  —  no  bracelet  —  you  must  never  give 
me  any  jewels  again  ; '  and  as  Lady  Lucy  spoke,  she 
leaned  against  a  chair  for  support.  At  such  words  her 
husband  turned  quickly  round,  started  up,  and  ex- 
claimed, 

'  Lucy,  my  love !  —  in  tears —  what  has  happened  ? ' 


LADY  Lucy's  secret.  13 

and,  finding  that  even  when  he  wound  his  arm  round 
her  she  still  was  mute,  he  continued,  'Speak  —  this 
silence  breaks  my  heart  —  what  have  I  done  to  lose 
your  confidence  ?  ' 

'  Not  you  —  I  — '  gasped  the  wife.  *  Your  words  at 
breakfast  —  this  letter  —  have  rolled  the  stone  from  my 
heart  —  I  must  confess  —  the  truth  —  I  am  like  Mrs. 
Beaufort  —  in  debt  —  frightfully  in  debt.'  And  with  a 
gesture,  as  if  she  would  crush  hei-self  into  the  earth,  she 
slipped  from  his  arms  and  sank  literally  on  the  floor. 

Whatever  pang  Mr.  Ferrars  felt  at  the  knowledge  of 
her  fault,  it  seemed  overpowered  by  the  sense  of  her 
present  anguish  —  an  anguish  that  proved  how  bitter 
had  been  the  expiation;  and  he  lifted  his  wife  to  a 
sofa,  bent  over  her  with  fondness,  called  her  by  all  the 
dear  pet  names  to  which  her  ear  was  accustomed,  and 
nearer  twenty  times  than  once  gave  her  the  '  kiss  of 
forgiveness.' 

'  And  it  is  of  you  I  have  been  frightened  ! '  cried 
Lady  Lucy,  clinging  to  his  hand.  *  You  who  I  thought 
would  never  make  any  excuses  for  faults  you  yourself 
could  not  have  committed  ! ' 

'  I  have  never  been  tempted.' 

'  Have  I  .^     I  dare  not  say  so.' 

'  Tell  me  how  it  all  came  about,'  said  Mr.  Ferrars, 
drawing  her  to  him,  '  tell  me  from  the  beginning.' 

But  his  gentleness  unnerved  her  —  she  felt  choking 

—  loosened  the  collar  of  her  dress  for  breathing  space 

—  and  gave  him  the  knowledge  he  asked  in  broken 
exclamations. 

'  Before  I  was  married  —  it  —  began.  They  per- 
suaded  me  so    many  —  oh,   so    many  —  unnecessary 


14  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

things  were  —  needed.  Then  they  would  not  send 
the  bills  —  and  I —  for  a  long  time  —  never  knew  — 
what  I  owed  —  and  then  —  and  then  —  I  thought  I 
should  have  the  power  —  but — ' 

'  Your  allowance  was  not  sufficient  ? '  asked  Mr. 
Ferrars,  pressing  her  hand  as  he  spoke. 

'  Oh,  yes,  yes,  yes  !  most  generous,  and  yet  it  was 
always  forestalled  to  pay  old  bills  ;  and  then  —  and 
then  my  wants  were  so  many.  I  was  so  weak. 
Madame  Dalmas  has  had  dresses  I  could  have  worn 
when  I  had  new  ones  on  credit  instead,  and  —  and 
Harris  has  had  double  wages  to  compensate  for  what 
a  lady's  maid  thinks  her  perquisites ;  even  articles  I 
might  have  given  to  poor  gentlewomen  I  have  been 
mean  enough  to  sell.  Oh,  Walter !  I  have  been  very 
wrong ;  but  I  have  been  miserable  for  at  least  three 
years.  1  have  felt  as  if  an  iron  cage  were  rising  round 
me  —  from  which  you  only  could  free  me  —  and  yet, 
till  to-day,  I  think  I  could  have  died  rather  than  confess 
to  you.' 

'  My  poor  girl !  Why  should  you  have  feared  me  ? 
Have  I  ever  been  harsh  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  —  no  —  but  you  are  so  just — so  strict  in 
all  these  things  — ' 

'  I  hope  I  am  ;  and  yet  not  the  less  do  I  understand 
how  all  this  has  come  about.  Now,  Lucy,  —  now  that 
you  have  ceased  to  fear  me  —  tell  me  the  amount.' 

She  strove  to  speak,  but  could  not. 

'Three  figures  or  four.?  tell  me.' 

'I  am  afraid  —  yes,  I  am  afraid  four,'  murmured 
Lady  Lucy,  and  hiding  her  face  from  his  view ;  '  yes, 
four  figures,  and  my  quarter  received  last  week  gone, 
every  penny.' 


LADY   LUCy's   secret.  15 

'  Lucy,  every  bill  shall  be  paid  this  day  ;  but  you 
must  reward  me  by  being  happy.' 

'  Generous  !  dearest !  But,  Walter,  if  you  had  been 
a  poor  man,  what  then  ? ' 

'  Ah,  Lucy,  that  would  have  been  a  very  different 
and  an  infinitely  sadder  story.  Instead  of  the  relin- 
quishment of  some  indulgence  hardly  to  be  missed, 
there  might  have  been  ruin,  and  poverty,  and  disgrace. 
You  have  one  excuse,  —  at  least  you  knew  that  I  could 
pay  at  last.' 

'  Ah,  but  at  what  a  price  !  The  price  of  your  love 
and  confidence.' 

'  No,  Lucy,  —  for  your  confession  has  been  volun- 
tary ;  and  I  will  not  ask  myself  what  I  should  have 
felt  if  the  knowledge  come  from  another.  After  all, 
you  have  fallen  to  a  temptation  which  besets  the  wives 
of  the  rich  far  more  than  those  of  poor  or  struggling 
gentlemen.  Tradespeople  are  shrewd  enough  in  one 
respect  —  they  do  not  press  their  commodities  and 
long  creditSn  quarters  where  ultimate  payment  seems 
doubtful  —  though  — ' 

'  They  care  not  what  domestic  misery  they  create 
among  the  rich,'  interrupted  Lady  Lucy,  bitterly. 

'  Stay  :  there  are  faults  on  both  sides,  not  the  least 
of  them  being  that  girls  in  your  station  are  too  rarely 
taught  the  value  of  money,  or  that  integrity  in  money 
matters  should  be  to  them  a  point  of  honor  second 
only  to  one  other.  Now  listen,  my  darling,  before 
we  dismiss  this  painful  subject  for  ever.  You  have 
■  the  greatest  confidence  in  your  maid,  and  entre  noxis 
she  must  be  a  good  deal  in  the  secret.  We  shall 
bribe  her  to  discretion,  however,  by  dismissing  Madame 


16  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Dalmas  at  once  and  for  ever.  As  soon  as  you  can 
spare  Harris,  I  will  send  her  to  change  a  cheque  at 
Coutts',  and  then,  for  expedition  and  security,  she  shall 
take  on  the  brougham  and  make  a  round  to  these 
tradespeople.  Meanwhi^,  I  will  drive  you  in  the 
phaeton  to  look  at  the  bracelet.' 

'  Oh,  no  —  no,  dear  Walter,  not  the  bracelet.' 

'Yes — yes  —  I  say  yes.  Though  not  a  quarrel, 
this  is  a  sorrow  which  has  come  between  us,  and  there 
must  be  a  peace-offering.  Besides  I  would  not  have 
you  think  that  you  had  reached  the  limits  of  my  will, 
and  of  my  means  to  gratify  you.' 

'  To  think  that  I  could  have  doubted  —  that  I  could 
have  feared  you  ! '  sobbed  Lady  Lucy,  as  tears  of  joy 
coursed  down  her  cheeks.  '  But,  Walter,  it  is  not 
every  husband  who  would  have  shown  such  gen- 
erosity.' 

'  I  think  there  are  few  husbands,  Lucy,  who  do  not 
estimate  truth  and  candor  as  among  the  chief  of  con- 
jugal virtues :  —  ah,  had  you  confided  \if  me  when 
first  you  felt  the  bondage  of  debt,  how  much  anguish 
would  have  been  spared  you  ! ' 


.A--:,.,  rr 


GERALDINE-A   LIFE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

'  While  youth's  keen  light  is  in  thine  eye, 
While  each  new  hour  goes  dancing  by, 
While  giiiish  visions  are  not  gone, 
And  sorrow  is  almost  unknown  — '     s.  B. 

Geraldine  Harmer  was  an  only  child,  and  had  been 
petted,  caressed,  beloved  —  indulged,  if  you  will,  and 
•what  the  world  calls  '  spoiled,'  from  infancy.  But 
there  is  a  wiser  and  better  creed  than  that  of  the  world 
in  general ;  and  it  is,  that  no  human  being  can  be 
spoiled  by  the  government  of  kindness  and  affection,  be 
they  ever  so  lavish  and  warm.  One  thing,  however,  it 
does  ;  just  as  sunshine  develops  the  color  of  flowers  and 
leaves  which  would  have  been  pale  and  sickly  in  the 
shade,  it  draws  out  the  deep  hues  and  lines  of  charac- 
ter ;  and  it  may  be  that  the  selfishness  of  the  selfish 
becomes  more  apparent  when  such  a  nature  is  the  re- 
cipient of  life's  choicest  blessings.  But  who  can  think 
of  the  myriad  hearts  in  which  the  noblest  qualities,  the 
purest  aspirations,  and  even  the  most  world-enriching 
talents  lie  buried  like  seeds  in  an  Egyptian  tomb,  for 
want  of  the  light  and  heat  the  affections  alone  can 
bestow,  and  yet  grieve  for  their  rays  shining  —  even 
though  they  chance  to  fall  sometimes  on  unworthy 
objects ! 

2 


18  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Beautiful  as  was  Geraldine's  developed  character,  I 
believe  her  to  have  been  only  an  average  type  of  her 
sex,  if  its  early  influences  were  more  commonly  as  fa- 
vorable. With  all  the  softness  and  tenderness  which 
belong  of  right  to  a  woman,  she  possessed  that  moral 
bravery  which  is  sure  to  be  extinguished  by  a  discipline 
of  fear,  and  which  for  this  reason  is  one  of  the  rarest 
attributes  of  character.  For  my  own  part,  I  never 
hear  a  harsh  word  spoken  to  a  child  without  trembling 
for  the  consequences,  without  dreading  that  the  bloom 
of  perfect  and  proud  integrity  may  at  that  moment  be 
brushed  away,  and  the  first  thoughts  of  deceit  be 
fanned  into  being. 

Geraldine  was  about  seventeen  when  she  lost  her 
mother ;  and  henceforth  home-love  seemed  centred  in 
her  remaining  parent.  Friends  may  be  very  dear,  ac- 
quaintances pleasant  and  instructive  companions  ;  but 
it  is  round  our  very  hearth,  under  the  roof  where  we 
rest,  and  in  the  daily,  hourly  intercourse  of  life,  that 
the  heart  must  either  be  satisfied  or  not ;  and  human 
happiness,  or  a  blank  where  it  should  be,  exist.  Blessed 
Geraldine  !  still,  still  for  her  was  home  afiection.  Even 
grief  for  the  dead,  deep,  intense  as  it  was,  had  a  gleam 
of  light  about  it  that  was  not  borrowed  from  sorrow  ; 
like  the  dark  clouds  that  we  often  see  tinged  with  a 
golden  sunshine.  Every  memory  of  her  mother  was 
sweet  and  sacred  ;  of  peace  and  of  gladness.  It  was 
at  this  period  that  Mr.  Harmer  changed  his  residence 
from  an  inland  town  to  the  coast  of  Devon.  Perhaps 
local  associations  have  more  influence  upon  us  than  we 
are  always  ready  to  admit.  Geraldine's  childhood  had 
been  passed  amid  the  soft  rich  scenery  of  the  heart  of 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  10 

England,  where  meadows  show  their  brightest,  deepest 
green,  and  the  affluent  earth  is  most  lavish  of  its  treas- 
ures ;  where  blooming  orchards  look  like  the  flower 
gardens  of  some  gigantic  world,  and  the  ripening  corn 
sways  heavily  in  the  breeze,  drooping  beneath  the 
weight  of  its  growing  wealth ;  where  the  sunny  hills 
and  the  fertile  valleys  and  the  gentle  streams  look  up 
to  a  changeful  sky  —  to  them  most  benignant  —  with 
a  fond  and  grateful  smile  !  The  scene  had  surely 
been  in  unison  with  her  own  happy,  joyous,  careless 
childhood. 

Life  is  broken  up  into  the  epochs  that  emotions 
make,  far  more  vividly  than  by  the  lines  of  outward 
actions  or  events;  though  often  enough  they  mould,  or 
melt  into,  one  another.  The  death  of  her  mother  was 
Geraldine's  first  sorrow,  speedily  followed  by  the 
change  to  a  sea-side  residence;  and  this  —  the  per- 
petual presence  of  the  wide  horizon,  the  changeful, 
restless,  slumbering,  treacherous  ocean,  was  beauti- 
fully appropriate  to  the  new  life  which  was  dawning 
upon  her.  That  one  sorrow  had  opened  the  dark  door 
through  which  so  much  knowledge  steals  into  the 
heart;  that  knowledge  taught  by  suffering,  which  is 
the  balance  in  the  scale,  and  forbids  even  hope  to  soar 
too  high.  Yet  she  was  at  the  age  when,  despite  all 
the  world  can  do,  life  will  ever  wear  a  new  and  bright 
aspect,  if  not  the  brightest  Fate  has  in  store.  And  as 
Geraldine  sat  on  the  sea-shore,  watching  the  glancing 
waves  that  broke  at  her  feet,  her  musings  took  that 
tinge  of  poetry  of  which  few  natures  are  quite  incapa- 
ble. Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  each  wave  had  a  story 
it   refused   to    tell  —  a  tale  from   the  distant   climes, 


20  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

whence  it  had  toiled  on  some  strange  mysterious  mis- 
sion ;  or  as  she  marked  the  gently  rising  tide,  obedient 
to  the  mistress  of  the  waters,  who  beckoned  from  her 
starry  court,  her  soul  seemed  lifted  by  that  worship  of 
nature,  most  reverent  as  it  was,  till  she  saw  or  created 
a  thousand  vague  yet  beautiful  types. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that  Geraldine 
Harmer's  life  was  that  of  a  recluse,  or  that  she  grew  to 
be  a  mere  visionary ;  far  otherwise  ;  for  the  next  six 
or  seven  years  she  mixed  a  good  deal  in  society,  and 
paid  at  least  one  visit  in  the  year  to  the  metropolis. 
Observation  confirmed  or  contradicted  the  theories  of 
her  young  mind  ;  and  in  her  father's  constant  society 
and  confiding  affection  she  had  that  support,  the  ab- 
sence of  which  is,  I  believe,  the  most  fatal  deprivation 
a  young  woman  can  know  —  the  support  of  a  stronger 
mind,  and  more  enlarged  intellect  than  her  own  ;  that 
something  which  she  recognises  most  speedily,  and 
bows  to  most  implicitly,  in  father,  brother,  or  husband. 
The  metaphor  of  the  oak  and  the  ivy,  as  applied  to  the 
two  natures,  is  beautiful,  because  it  contains  so  much 
truth  ;  and  woman's  fine  qualities  are  only  half  devel- 
oped while  tottering  as  it  were  by  herself.  There  is 
but  one  condition  more  pitiable,  and  that  is  when  she 
twines  herself  round  some  rotten  reed,  corrupts  her 
own  soul  by  the  contact,  and  sinks  into  the  very  mire 
at  last.  But  the  girl  who  nestles  by  the  side  of  a  wise 
yet  gentle  father,  or  who  has  the  proud  privilege  of  a 
noble  brother's  tender  friendship,  is  sheltered  from  a 
thousand  dangers  and  temptations.  She  will  be  the 
last  to  '  lose  '  her  heart  unworthily,  though  she  may 
bestow  it  entirely  and  wisely. 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  ,  21 

Not  driven  therefore  to  any  fatal  choice  by  the  want 
of  an  object  to  venerate  and  rely  on  —  so  large  an 
element  in  the  hesoin  d^ aimer  —  there  is  not  much 
wonder  that  at  three-and-twenty  Geraldine's  heart  was 
still  free.  It  might  have  been  open  to  those  passing 
thoughts  and  inclinations,  which  are  but  as  the  summer 
lightning  that  indicates  the  pathway  of  the  storm  ;  for 
youth  will  have  its  dreams,  and  the  heart  its  own 
promptings.  But  her  peace  had  never  been  broken  ; 
her  soul  was  yet  ignorant  of  its  deepest  mysteries. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  accidents  of  society  threw 
her  a  good  deal  with  Lionel  Weymouth  ;  acquaintance 
ripened  into  intimacy  both  with  father  and  daughter ; 
and  intimacy  into  a  friendship  founded  on  mutual  ap- 
preciation and  esteem.  Weymouth  was  two  or  three 
years  older  than  Geraldine,  and,  until  a  recent  period, 
had  expected  to  inherit  a  fine  landed  property  in  the 
north  of  England.  Without  exactly  pledging  himself  to 
celibacy.  Sir  George  Weymouth  had  educated  the  orphan 
children  of  his  younger  brother  under  his  own  roof; 
and,  to  say  the  least,  had  permitted  the  world  to  look 
upon  Lionel  as  his  acknowledged  heir.  He,  however, 
was  not  insensible  to  the  precarious  tenure  of  his  for- 
tunes, and  from  boyhood  had  desired  to  establish  him- 
self in  a  profession.  Sir  George  proposed  a  military 
career,  one  which  almost  always  presents  some  points 
of  fascination  to  a  youth  of  nineteen  ;  and  Lionel, 
whose  mind  had  no  very  early  development,  was  more 
than  content  with  the  choice.  A  commission  was  pur- 
chased in  one  of  those  regiments  whose  officers  are 
chiefly  supplied  from  the  ranks  of  the  aristocracy ; 
and  family  pride,  together  with  a  true  regard  for  his 


22  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

nephew,  induced  Sir  George  to  make  him  a  yearly 
allowance  fully  suitable  to  the  maintenance  of  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  had  placed  him.  Meanwhile  the  two 
.sisters  remained  under  his  almost  parental  protection  ; 
and  Laura  at  eighteen  took  the  head  of  her  uncle's 
table. 

The  doctrine  of  '  Destiny  '  is  charmingly  satisfactory 
when  some  perfectly  unexpected  disaster,  of  which  we 
have  been  the  blind  instruments,  takes  place.  The 
feelings  of  Laura  and  Marian  Weymouth  were  entirely 
a  case  in  point,  when,  suddenly,  without  more  prepar- 
ation than  a  day  or  two's  vague  suspicion,  they  discov- 
ered that  their  sedate,  grey-headed  uncle,  of  fifty-five, 
was  actually  in  love  with,  and  had  proposed  to  marry, 
their  school  companion,  their  beautiful  friend,  Emily. 
Dalton  !  For  this  result  had  she  been  their  guest  for 
weeks  at  a  time.  Emily  belonged  to  what  is  called 
'  a  good  family  ; '  but  she  was  one  of  the  many  chil- 
dren of  a  'younger  son.'  Half-a-dozen  sisters  and 
three  brothers  must  ultimately  divide  with  her  his 
slender  fortune  ;  but  she  had  been  educated  in  a 
worldly  school,  and  had  always  looked  on  marriage  as 
the  stepping-stone  to  fortune.  It  had  become  a  by- 
word ii^  her  home,  though  always  uttered  sotto  voce, 
that  love  was  a  luxury  reserved  for  the  rich,  and  ro- 
mantic reveries  an  indulgence  for  the  well-endowed. 
Surely  this  was  precisely  the  girl  to  accept,  with  self- 
gratulation,  the  hand  of  an  elderly  baronet  of  large 
fortune  !  Whether  by  skilful  flatteries  and  evident 
partiality  she  had  sought  it,  is  another  question. 

The  marriage  was  a  hasty  one  ;  for  there  was  no 
reason  for  delay.      Laura  and  Marian  were    brides- 


GERALDINE A    LIFE.  23 

maids;  but  though  not  above  a  hundred  miles  distant 
at  the  time,  Lionel  was  not  invited  to  the  wedding. 
The  omission  did  not  arise  from  any  ill  or  unkind  feel- 
ing on  the  bridegroom's  part ;  very  far  from  it.  The 
truth  was,  the  most  unpleasant  task  he  had  ever  im- 
posed on  himself  was  writing  to  his  nephew  the  intelli- 
gence of  his  intentions  ;  and  Lionel's  presence  at  the 
wedding  breakfast  would  have  been  like  that  of  ihe 
skeleton  at  a  feast.  Yet,  after  all,  there  was  no  wrong 
in  his  purpose  :  he  had  acted  for  years  a  father's  part 
to  his  brother's  children  ;  nor  did  he  now  intend  to 
desert  them  ;  he  was  only  taking  upon  himself  those 
duties  which  the  '  world '  had  expected  from  him  thirty 
years  before. 

Lionel  saw  the  event  in  this  its  true  light;  but  he 
had  none  the  less  a  just  perception  of  the  change  it 
effected  in  his  own  prospects.  In  the  depths  of  his 
heart  he  had  for  some  time  felt  that  his  vocation  should 
not  have  been  a  military  one  ;  though,  out  of  deference 
to  his  uncle's  feelings,  he  had  been  silent  on  the  subject 
of  his  discontent.  As  his  character  matured,  there 
sprang  up  restless  energies  which  revolted  at  the 
effeminate  existence  of  a  carpet  soldier  ;  while  at  the 
same  time  his  mind  sickened  at  the  associations  of 
active  service,  and  disputed  the  'honor'  of  being  a 
legalized  slaughterer.  But  now  he  determined  to 
sell  his  commission,  and  woo  fortune  in  some  more 
congenial  path.  Soon  after  the  marriage  he  commu- 
nicated his  wishes  to  his  uncle,  who,  though  a  little 
surprised,  raised  no  opposition ;  and  when  Lionel, 
acknowledging  his  obligations,  yet  gave  expression  to 
his  ardent  desire  for  independence.  Sir  George  easily 


24  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

yielded  to  his  proposal  for  curtailing  to  the  most 
necessary  trifle  his  hitherto  handsome  allowance.  In 
truth,  wealthy  as  the  baronet  was,  he  had  already 
discovered  many  new  channels  which  were  delving 
themselves  for  his  money,  and  as  ordinary  characters 
ever  do,  gave  up  a  thousand  generous  resolves  under 
the  pressure  of  altered  circumstances. 

It  was  after  Lionel  Weymouth  had  left  the  army, 
and  during  the  months  which  preceded  his  embarkation 
for  India  —  that  land  of  golden  promise,  where  he  had 
formed  a  connection  with  a  mercantile  establishment 
—  that  he  met  Geraldine  Harmer.  The  regard  which 
sprung  up  between  them  was  not  of  that  rapid  growth 
and  demonstrative  nature  which  speedily  brings  about 
a  climax,  and  not  unfrequently  dies  out  as  quickly. 
But  silently  and  gradually  it  pervaded  the  heart  of 
each  ;  implanting  fresh  hopes  therein,  and  giving  its 
own  hue  to  life.  And  yet  not  a  word  of  this  love  had 
been  spoken  between  them ;  nay,  Lionel  considered 
that  his  attempt  to  conceal  his  affection  had  been  in  a 
great  measure  successful.  He  had  marked  out  for 
himself  a  career,  a  goal  to  be  reached.  Not  until  his 
sisters  were  either  married  or  endowed  by  him  with 
independence,  and  not  until  he  had  won  a  fortune  to 
lay  at  her  feet,  would  he  seek  Geraldine's  love,  or  sue 
for  her  hand.  During  the  long  yeai*s  of  his  absence 
she  should  be  free  :  without  blame  if  she  forgot  him  — 
without  remorse  if  she  wedded  another.  Perhaps,  in 
the  long  run,  this  code  of  honor  works  well ;  for  a 
promise  is  but  a  chain  that  may  gall  more  than  it 
binds ;  and  the  strongest  of  all  ties  is  the  unac- 
knowledged one  that  the  heart  forges  for  itself.     But, 


GERALDINE A    LIFE.  25 

unfortunately,  they  whose  constancy  would  shine  out 
most  brightly  unimpaired  by  time  or  absence,  are 
the  very  ones  who  suffer  most  severely  from  the  alter- 
nating hopes  and  fears  which  must  accompany  an 
unacknowledged  love,  and  which  perplex  the  reason, 
and  "make  the  word  '  free '  but  a  term  of  mockery. 

Lionel  Weymouth  left  England  with  a  noble  ap- 
preciation of  Geraldine  Harmer's  worth,  and  a  heart 
truly  and  deeply  devoted  to  her.  Every  purpose  and 
aspiration  of  his  nature  led  up  to  one  hope  —  the 
hope  of  her  affection,  and  perpetual  companionship 
through  the  meridian  and  decline  of  life  :  for  Youth, 
he  foresaw,  must  be  passed  in  the  struggle  to  win 
her  ;  but  he  left  with  his  love  unspoken  !  Perhaps  his 
feelings  might  have  betrayed  him  from  his  resolution 
had  not  their  last  interview  been  broken  by  one  of 
those  commonplace  accidents  which  so  often  jar  on 
the  souPs  truer  world  of  thought  and  emotion.  The 
gushing  words  flew  back  to  the  heart  unuttered ;  and 
they  parted  in  the  presence  of  others,  much  as  ordinary 
acquaintances  might  have  done. 

There  is,  generally  speaking,  so  much  in  a  man's 
nature  that  is  incomprehensible  to  a  woman,  that  it  is 
always  a  daring  task  for  her  to  weigh  his  actions,  or  to 
attempt  the  divination  of  his  feelings.  His  love  is 
seldom  her  love ;  his  faith  is  not  her  faith ;  his  life  is 
not  her  life  —  only  in  moments  of  existence  which 
shine  out  briefly  and  brightly  in  the  dark  expanse  of 
memory,  like  stars  on  the  purple  firmament,  does  it 
seem  that  love  and  sympathy  can  raise  the  curtain  and 
let  one  soul  perceive  the  other.  For  if  woman  knows 
not  man,  neither  can  he,  except  in  rarest  instances, 


26  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

regulate  the  spring  of  her  faults,  or  discover  the  foun- 
tain of  her  virtues. 

Thus  it  is  not  for  me  to  tell  how  passed  the  years 
with  Lionel  Weymouth.  Active  was  his  life,  .i  d 
prosperous  in  no  ordinary  degree,  if  the  esteem  and 
respect  of  his  fellow-men  could  make  it  so,  and  the 
gold  which  seemed  by  some  strange  alchemy  to  mul- 
tiply itself  at  his  bidding.  He  corresponded  with 
Geraldine  Harmer  on  terms  of  affectionate  friendship  ; 
but  he  spoke  not  of  love  and  marriage  at  first,  because 
to  the  integrity  of  his  purpose  it  still  belonged  to  hold 
her  '  free.'  But  time  passed  on,  and  a  few  strokes  of 
his  pen  secured  ease  and  independence  to  his  grateful 
and  affectionate  sisters.  They  married  too,  soon  after- 
wards, in  the  sphere  which  was  theirs  by  birth  and 
education.  And  still  he  corresponded  with  Geraldine 
Harmer,  though  without  any  change  in  the  tone  of  his 
letters ;  only  that  the  presents  which  often  accom- 
panied them  grew  more  and  more  costly.  Instead  of 
graceful  trinkets,  precious  more  as  souvenirs  of  his 
regard  than  for  their  intrinsic  value,  came  shawls  of 
Cashmere,  meet  for  royalty  itself — the  cosdiest  tissues 
from  the  looms  of  Decca,  and  jewels  of  great  value  — 
a  monument  they  were,  but  we  ask,  as  the  poet  did  at 
the  tomb  of  a  wife,  was  it  '  love  or  pride  ?'  The  ten- 
derness of  deep  regard  shone  forth  in  every  page  he 
wrote  ;  yet  still  he  did  not  ask  her  to  be  his.  Why  ? 
Ah  !  that  is  precisely  the  question  a  woman  cannot 
answer. 

Time  passed  very  differently  with  Geraldine  Har- 
mer. Hers  was  a  life  of  great  retirement ;  her 
father's  age   and   increasing  infirmity  inducing  with 


GEEALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  27 

each  year  greater  seclusion,  while  her  own  inclinations 
henceforth  eschewed,  not  less  decidedly,  the  vanities 
and  frivolities  of  the  gay  world.  With  the  awakening 
of  the  heart  comes  also  the  awakening  to  the  hol- 
lowness  of  what  the  world  calls  pleasure  ;  and  she, 
like  a  thousand  others,  content  with  the  secret  worship 
of  a  beautiful  idea,  relinquished  every  likely  oppor- 
tunity of  substhuting  for  it  some  absolute  reality.  She 
was  almost  happy  —  cheerful  certainly  ;  and  four 
years  passed  away  with  the  seeming  swiftness  for  ever 
attendant  on  a  calm  and  uniform  course.  It  is  time  in 
which  action,  and  change,  and  suffering  crowd,  that  in 
the  retrospect  appears  so  long.  Geraldine  was  seven- 
and-twenty  when  her  father  died.  It  was  a  great  grief 
to  her  ;  but  one  of  those  sorrows  which  a  merciful 
Providence  heals  by  the  touch  of  time. 

A  portion  of  Mr.  Harmer's  income  died  with  him, 
but  Geraldine  found  herself  mistress  of  about  four 
hundred  a  year.  This  was  an  income  quite  sufficient 
to  supply  her  moderate  wants,  and  gratify  her  simple 
tastes.  She  remained  in  the  same  pretty  cottage  they 
had  so  long  inhabited,  and  by  dint  of  frequently, 
almost  constantly  having  a  female  friend  for  a  visitor, 
contrived  the  nearest  approach  to  an  independent  style 
of  living  which  it  is  possible  for  a  young  single  woman 
to  accomplish ;  at  least  without  touching  the  confines 
of  those  conventional  proprieties,  which  sometimes 
bristle  very  vexatiously  in  the  way  of  the  most  pure- 
intentioned.  And  still  came  the  letters  from  India; 
but  less  through  them  than  by  more  indirect  channels 
did  she  learn  that  Lionel  Weymouth  was  acquiring  a 
princely  fortune,  to  which  her  moderate  independence 
would  be  an  unfelt  addition. 


28  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

And  still  time  passed,  and  Geraldine  was  thirty  — 
that  age  at  which  the  fatherless,  brotherless,  single 
woman  need  pause  and  ask  her  own  nature  if  it  have 
enough  of  the  oak  in  itself  still,  still  to  stand  alone. 
Probably  she  will  look  back  with  rejoicing  at  having 
escaped  some  particular  union,  or  more  than  one  ;  and 
certainly,  if  she  have  mind  and  heart,  her  ideal  of 
happiness  will  be  far  higher  and  nobler  than  it  was  ten 
years  before.  If  —  but  it  is  with  Geraldine  we  have 
to  do;  and  she,  like  so  many  others,  bore  the  talisman 
in  her  heart  which  shaped  out  her  life  as  if  by  the  iron 
hand  of  Destiny. 


CHAPTER  II. 

'  It  hurts  not  him 
That  he  is  loved  of  me.' 

all's  well  that  esds  well. 

*  I  FEAR,  Watson,  we  shall  have  stormy  weather,* 
said  Geraldine,  addressing  an  old  fisherman  whom  she 
had  known  ever  since  her  first  residence  on  the  coast. 
Watson  was  an  excellent  specimen  of  the  British  tar 
—  one  of  the  fortunate  class  who,  having  escaped  the 
most  fearful  vicissitudes  of  active  service,  disdain  the 
refuge  of  Greenwich,  and  rejoicing  in  the  proper  com- 
plement of  limbs  and  features,  ekes  out  an  honest  and 
peaceful,  and  at  the  same  time  semi-marine  existence, 
as  waterman  and  fisherman. 

'  Aye,  aye,  miss,'  said  Watson,  throwing  down  the 
cordage  he  was  joining,  and  touching  his  hat  to  the 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  29 

lady,  and  the  next  minute  he  had  sprung  from  his  boat 
which  lay  idle  on  the  beach,  and  was  sauntering  with 
a  sailor's  swagger  beside  her.  This  was  no  unusual 
occurrence ;  for  Watson,  as  I  have  said,  was  an  old 
acquaintance.  If  he  advised  a  sail,  and  said  the 
weather  was  settled,  Geraldine  and  her  friends  were 
always  willing  to  trust  themselves  to  his  skill  and 
care  ;  these  pleasure-trips  being  usually  enlivened  by 
a  story  from  the  old  '  man-of-war's-man.'  It  .is  true 
that  some  of  these  became  thrice-told  tales ;  but  the 
exactness  with  which  the  '  yarns '  were  repeated  only 
impressed  his  hearers  with  a  conviction  of  Watson's 
veracity.  He  was  an  honest  fellow  in  the  main  —  a 
little  addicted,  it  might  be,  to  driving  hard  bargains 
in  the  fishing-season,  when  he  had  got  a  successful 
*  haul '  of  fish,  and  was  able  to  fix  the  market  price  ; 
on  which  occasions,  however,  his  full  heart  must  vent 
itself,  and  he  usually  made  some  excuse  to  call  at  the 
cottage  and  relate  his  good  fortune.  Sometimes  he 
met  with  a  rebuke  instead  of  a  congratulation,  which 
he  listened  to  with  the  greatest  respect,  satisfying  his 
conscience  with  the  reflection  that  his  avocations  bor- 
dered on  a  sort  of  political  economy  quite  beyond  a 
young  lady's  reasoning.  Yet  he  did  not  think  the 
world  contained  so  perfect  a  creature  as  his  pat- 
roness ;  and  imbued  as  he  was  with  the  deepest 
reverence  for  her,  an  absolute  affection,  almost  uncon- 
sciously to  himself,  had  taken  still  deeper  root  in  his 
heart.  All  these  feelings  had  expressed  themselves  in 
the  only  compliment  he  knew  how  to  pay.  On  the 
recent  repairing  and  fresh  painting  of  his  darling  boat, 
he  had  called  it  the  '  Geraldine,'   its  former  laurels 


80  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

having  been  won  under  the  repellant  title  of  '  The 
Gorgon.'  Sailors  must  be  exceedingly  fond  of  the 
hideously  picturesque  ;  and  it  was  a  sacrifice  to  carve 
away  the  unsightly  figure-head  into  a  shapeless  mass, 
which  probably  more  resembled  a  cornucopia  than 
anything  else.  As  for  attempting  to  substitute  a  like- 
ness of  Geraldine  herself,  he  would  have  thought  it 
presumption  had  a  ghost  from  the  old  carvers  arisen 
to  attempt  it. 

'  Are  there  many  boats  out } '  continued  Geraldine, 
drawing  her  shawl  tightly  round  her  ;  for  the  freshen- 
ing breeze  had  almost  plucked  it  from  her  shoulders. 

'All  our  craft  will  be  in  before  sun-down,'  replied 
Watson,  '  if  I  know  the  men.  I  told  them  this  morn- 
ing a  squall  was  coming  on,  and  you  see  there's  half- 
a-dozen  owners  who  took  my  advice,  and  their  craft 
are  side  by  side  my  "Geraldine."  But  I  tell  you  what, 
miss  —  there's  a  brig  in  the  offing  that  had  better  hold 
out  to  sea.  This  is  nasty  weather  to  come  in  without 
a  pilot ;  and  they  hav'nt  one  on  board,  1  know,  by  the 
roads  she  is  in  now.' 

Alas  !  the  seaman's  fears  were  but  too  well  founded. 
As  night  drew  on,  so  increased  the  hurricane  ;  and  by 
midnight  the  tempest  was  raging.  The  unfortunate 
brig  fired  guns  of  distress ;  but  no  boat  could  have 
lived  through  the  surf  that  broke  round  the  coast,  like 
some  guard  of  the  furies  to  forbid  a  rescue.  Geral- 
dine Harmer  slept  not ;  but  though,  often  and  often, 
sympathy  with  the  mariners'  perils  had  kept  her 
wakeful,  never  before  had  she  paced  her  own  shel- 
tered chamber  with  so  anxious  a  heart.  The  brig 
which  had  been  shown  her  in  the  offing,  and  whose 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  31 

guns  of  distress  she  had  heard,  haunted  her  with  its 
presence ;  and  the  dangers  of  its  crew  pressed  on  her 
imagination  with  a  force  and  a  mystery  alike  new  to 
her.  It  seemed  as  if  her  soul  maintained  some  vague 
yet  spiritual  union  with  them,  and  she  already  felt 
that  she  knew  the  disasters  which  others  could  only 
fear. 

When  the  first  leaden  grey  of  morning  dawned 
Gerald  ine  unbarred  her  window,  and  looked  out  on 
the  ocean  in  the  distance.  The  rage  of  the  tempest 
had  abated,  but  dark  driving  clouds  still  obscured  the 
sky,  and  the  sea  with  a  harsh  roar  still  heaved  in 
monstrous  billows,  and  lashed  the  shore  with  its  yellow 
foam.  She  could  not  distinguish  what  was  doing  on 
the  beach,  but  crowds  of  people  here  and  there  attested 
some  purpose  of  humanity  or  object  of  curiosity.  Ger- 
ald ine  roused  a  servant,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  and 
her  attendant  hurried  forth ;  but  as  they  approached 
the  beach  some  of  the  sailors  intercepted  them,  anx- 
ious to  save  women  from  the  mournful  scene  to  which 
they  had  gathered.  In  few  words  the  tale  was  told. 
The  brig  had  gone  to  pieces  on  the  rocks,  and  the  tide 
had  already  washed  several  dead  bodies  on  shore. 
Shocked  as  Geraldine  was,  and  her  nerves  shaken  till 
she  found  relief  in  a  flood  of  tears,  the  scene  even  to 
its  minute  details  appeared  but  the  realization  of  a 
dream,  and  it  did  not  seem  within  the  power  of  her 
will  to  leave  the  spot.  She  did  not  seek  the  sad 
spectacles  which  presented  themselves,  but  she  could 
not  shun  them  —  'Where  is  Watson?'  she  asked, 
not  seeing  him  among  the  many  familiar  faces  that 
crowded  round  her. 


32  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

'  He  has  gone  off,  ma'am,'  replied  a  bystander, 
*  with  half-a-dozen  other  boats,  in  the  hopes  of  still 
saving  some  lives  from  the  wreck.' 

And  another,  who  had  been  watching  through  a 
glass  the  spot  where  a  bare  mast,  sustaining  a  signal 
flag,  but  rocking  at  the  will  of  the  winds,  proclaimed 
the  scene  of  the  disaster,  exclaimed  joyfully  — '  They 
are  turning  back !  they  are  coming  in !  * 

And  so  it  was.  Now  riding  on  the  crest  of  a  wave, 
now  lost  to  sight  in  a  watery  ravine,  the  boats  sped 
homeward,  battling  with  dangers  and  difficulties,  but 
surmounting  them  all.  Presently  they  could  be  plainly 
seen  by  every  anxious  watcher,  and  very  soon  each 
separate  craft  could  be  distinguished.  How  the  spring 
of  kindly  thought  and  generous  deed  seemed  touched 
in  every  heart,  as  all  showed  themselves  eager  to 
proffer  assistance  !  The  first  boat  that  touched  the 
beach  contained  six  or  eight  sailors,  not  all  English- 
men, who  had  been  rescued  from  impending  death, 
and  from  whom  it  was  ascertained  that  the  lost  brig 
was  a  merchant  ship  from  Mexico  and  the  Havanna ; 
that  the  captain  was  among  the  lost,  and  that  the  few 
passengers  who  were  on  board  had  met  the  same  fate, 
even  in  the  desperate  attempt  which  had  been  made  to 
rescue  them  together  in  the  long  boat.  With  one  ex- 
ception however,  a  child,  a  girl  of  ten  or  eleven  years 
old,  who  was  reported  to  be  saved. 

It  was  the  '  Geraldine  '  which  brought  off  this  child  ; 
Watson  had  found  her  in  a  nearly  insensible  state, 
lashed  to  a  piece  of  the  wreck  beside  the  dead  body  of 
a  negro  woman,  said  to  have  been  her  nurse  and  only 
protector  during  the  voyage.     The  woman  had  died 


GERALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  33 

from  some  injury  on  the  head  —  some  blow  received, 
no  doubt,  from  the  falling  spars  of  the  ill-fated  vessel ; 
but  faithful  to  the  death,  her  swarthy  arm  still  encircled 
the  scarcely  animate  form  of  her  charge. 

Geraldine  Harmer  felt  drawn  irresistibly  to  the  spot 
where  Watson  was  approaching  the  shingle.  Every 
one  made  way  for  her,  and,  saving  the  men  who 
waded  through  the  surf  to  assist  the  landing,  she  was 
the  first  to  greet  the  brave  old  man.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  boat,  and  decently  covered  with  a  piece  of  canvas, 
which  imperfectly  revealed  the  rigid  outlines  of  death, 
lay  the  body  of  the  negress ;  while  in  the  prow,  on  a 
couch  made  of  the  same  rough  fabric,  the  child  was 
extended.  Exhausted  as  she  was  by  suffering,  her 
loveliness  was  too  remarkable  to  escape  notice  even  at 
a  moment  like  this.  Features  that  seemed  chiselled  to 
the  outline  of  perfect  beauty  were  hers,  and  a  com- 
plexion not  fair,  it  is  true,  but  of  unsullied  clearness, 
through  which  the  flush  of  feeling  was  wont  to  be  the 
tell-tale  of  every  passing  thought.  But  now  the  cheek 
was  pallid,  and  the  eyelids  drooped,  as  if  to  lay  their 
long  dark  lashes  against  its  whiteness.  Her  hair  almost 
black,  but  of  a  shade  richer  and  brighter,  was  parted 
and  plaited  with  care,  the  ends  being  tied  by  what  was 
yesterday  perhaps  a  gay  colored  ribbon,  now  stained 
and  faded  by  the  sea-water.  As  Watson  lifted  her  in 
his  arms,  the  lithe  and  graceful  figure  to  which  the  sat- 
urated garments  clung,  and  the  tiny  feet  and  delicate 
ankle,  completed  the  picture. 

Geraldine's  kind  and  generous  heart  yearned  to- 
wards the  desolate  girl,  and  though  many  of  the  by- 
standers ofTered  succor  and  protection,  they  drew  back 
3 


34  ENGLISH    TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

almost  as  if  relinquishing  a  claim,  when  she  said, 
'  Carry  her  home  to  the  cottage  to  me.  I  will  take 
charge  of  her  till  she  is  claimed  by  her  friends.' 

And  now  a  new  life  opened  to  Geraldine  Harmer. 
She  did  not  know  before  how  sweet  a  thing  it  was  to 
have  one  human  being  dependent  on  her  for  love  and 
help  ;  and  before  a  week  had  passed  she  dreaded  the 
time  which  should  bring  tidings  of  the  child's  parentage, 
or  the  assertion  of  claims  greater  than  her  own.  Flo- 
rentia  was  her  name,  and,  as  the  child  persisted  and 
believed,  the  only  one  she  had ;  and  Spanish  was  the 
only  language  that  she  spoke.  Not,  however,  the  pure 
Castilian,  which  a  student  might  have  comprehended, 
or  to  which  Geraldine's  knowledge  of  Italian  would 
have  helped  her,  but  a  strange  jargon  which  no  one 
could  be  found  thoroughly  to  understand.  And  it  was 
remarkable  that,  as  she  acquired  English,  which  she 
did  with  wonderful  facility,  the  child  seemed  to  lose  the 
recollection  of  her  native  tongue  !  Perhaps  she  was 
even  younger  than  she  seemed,  for  tropical  growth 
defies  European  calculation ;  and  fondly  as  in  many 
respects  there  was  evidence  she  had  been  tended,  her 
mind  was  utterly  uncultivated.  She  could  not  read, 
and  books  even  seemed  a  novelty  to  her  ;  though  she 
would  turn  them  about,  and  look  for  embellishments  of 
art  in  their  pages ;  showing,  too,  in  her  choice,  a  quick 
eye  and  right  taste  in  appreciating  a  graceful  outline, 
or  beautiful  landscape.  From  the  child's  own  account, 
so  far  as  she  could  make  herself  understood,  her  home 
had  been  in  a  sultry  climate,  where  she  had  lived  with 
a  dark  lady  whom  she  called  her  mother,  surrounded 
with  pomp  and  state  and  luxuries.     That  a  short  time 


GERALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  35 

before  she  left  this  home  her  mother  received  a  letter 
—  a  letter  brought,  she  knew,  from  a  ship  ;  that  it  con- 
tained bad  news,  she  was  sure  ;  that  her  mother  broke 
into  a  passion  of  rage  and  grief  on  reading  it ;  that  she 
threw  herself  on  the  floor,  and  tore  her  hair  in  her 
agony.  That  then  she  fell  ill,  but  before  she  died,  she 
had  bound  Netta,  the  negress,  by  some  fearful  oath,  to 
do  her  bidding  ;  and  that  she  had  given  her  a  jewel- 
hilted  dagger,  for  some  purpose  of  vengeance,  which 
dagger,  by  the  way,  had  been  found  on  the  body  when 
preparing  it  for  interment.  Of  her  father,  Florentia 
knew  nothing,  except  that  her  mother  wore  a  minia- 
ture of  him  till  the  bad  letter  came,  and  that  then  she 
had  broken  it  into  fragments  and  trampled  it  under  her 
feet. 

What  a  story  !  One  in  which  just  enough  of  fact 
was  told  to  awaken  the  curiosity  it  could  not  satisfy.  It 
seemed  to  point  at  love  and  guilt  —  the  betrayer  and 
the  betrayed  ;  that  love,  if  love  it  should  be  called, 
which,  lighted  by  the  flame  of  jealousy,  may  change  to 
hate  —  vengeance  —  purposed  crime  —  every  stormy 
passion  of  the  soul,  every  thing  which  rends  and  shat- 
ters it  —  except  remorse.  There  could  be  little  doubt 
that  Florentia  was  a  quadroon,  one  of  that  class  where 
the  point  of  mixed  descent  is  generally  as  remarkable 
for  its  beauty,  as  for  the  unhappy  circumstances  of 
social  position  which  descend  as  a  legacy  to  a  spurious 
race. 

Of  Religion  the  child  had  none ;  her  only  idea  con- 
nected with  it  being  that  of  propitiating  the  Virgin, 
whose  image,  in  the  form  of  a  chased  gold  ornament, 
she  had  constantly  worn. 


36  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Probably,  had  the  captain  of  the  brig  been  saved,  he 
might  have  been  able  to  give  some  account  of  his  pas- 
sengers ;  as  it  was,  conjecture  spent  itself  in  vain  sur- 
mises. The  advertisements  inserted  in  England,  and 
sent  out  to  Mexico,  remained  unanswered,  and  all 
which  could  be  ascertained  —  and  that  was  a  sort  of 
negative  information  —  was  that  no  such  passengers  as 
the  negress  and  the  child  had  been  registered  to  the 
owners  of  the  ship.  Most  probably  some  golden  per- 
suasions had  overruled  that  customary  formality. 

Many  a  heart  has  a  wider  capacity  for  loving  than 
itself  is  at  all  aware  of;  but  what  a  pit}^  that  affection 
—  the  only  sweetener  of  existence  —  should  waste  and 
wither  for  want  of  objects  on  which  to  rest !  Most 
truly  has  one  of  our  deepest  thinkers  —  aye,  and 
sternest  moralists  too,  for  he  lashes  his  fellow-men  for 
their  follies  and  weaknesses  almost  as  severely  as  for 
their  vices,  and  eschews  all  '  rose-water '  measures 
as  inefficacious  —  most  truly  even  h'e  says  that  the 
wealth  of  a  man  consists  in  the  number  of  things  that 
he  loves  and  blesses,  and  is  loved  and  blessed  by ;  and 
to  believe  this  is  surely  the  most  beautiful  faith  in  the 
world,  even  as  to  go  on  increasing  such  riches,  bestow- 
ing and  blessing  as  we  receive  and  are  blessed,  is  the 
holiest  and  happiest  life  we  can  lead.  Wherever  the 
seed  of  affection  is  sown,  some  weed  of  selfishness  is 
uprooted  to  make  way  for  it. 

Months  passed  away ;  and  now  Florentia  spoke 
English  fluently.  If  a  slightly  foreign  accent  still 
hovered  on  her  tongue,  or  some  strange  but  yet  ex- 
pressive word  found  its  place  in  a  sentence,  such 
peculiarity  but  gave  another  charm  to  a  voice  that  was 


GERALDINE A    LIFE.  37 

the  most  musical  in  the  world.  As  graceful  as  she 
was  beautiful,  her  very  presence  was  a  perpetual 
poetry  in  the  house.  Who  could  look  at  this  woman- 
ish child  and  childish  woman,  and  not  find  excuse  for 
her  faults,  if  by  dint  of  narrow  searching  you  could 
discover  them  ?  Certainly  not  Geraldine  Harmer;  for 
the  luscious  intoxicating  incense  of  affection  rose  up 
round  her,  and  obscured  her  judgment!  It  is  a  trite 
remark,  that  we  love  better  those  we  serve  than  them 
who  benefit  us ;  but  there  was  an  exception  to  the 
rule  here,  for  the  child  attached  herself  to  her  protec- 
tress, and  returned  her  affection  with  all  the  quickness 
and  passion  of  her  southern  nature.  Oh,  that  personal 
love !  how  very,  very  sweet  it  is  !  The  love  of  a 
child  or  of  a  dog  who  attaches  itself,  not  because  we 
are  rich,  or  clever,  or  handsome,  or  even  good,  but  for 
some  individuality  about  us  —  that  something  which 
we  call  —  oneself.  If  the  child  might  hang  about 
Geraldine's  neck,  fall  asleep  with  her  head  on  her 
knee,  cling  to  her  hand,  or,  failing  this,  hold  by  a 
morsel  of  her  dress,  she  was  happy  ;  and  she  showed 
that  she  was  happy,  by  her  sunny  looks  and  the  satis- 
fied smile  that  played  round  her  lips.  She  had  the 
couage  too  of  a  little  lioness,  when  occasion  called 
it  forth.     Witness  the  following  incident :  — 

Geraldine  had  determined  to  be  herself  the  instruc- 
tress of  her  youthful  protegee^  and  fully  aware  that  a 
mind  possessing  almost  the  quickness  of  maturity, 
and  yet  presenting  the  very  blank  of  early  childhood, 
could  be  subjected  to  no  common  discipline,  imposed 
but  few  set  rules  or  book  lessons  on  her  pupil.  But 
how  she  talked !  how  they  talked,  for  the  child  ques- 


38  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

tioned  and  gave  free  expression  to  her  thoughts  ;  and 
Geraldine  listened  with  no  little  interest  to  the  strange 
fresh  ideas  which  found  utterance.  One  day  they 
were  taking  a  country  walk  together;  walking  and 
talking;  now  of  the  bee  or  of  the  butterfly  as  it  floated 
near  or  dived  into  the  cup  of  a  wild  flower ;  now  of  the 
sparkling  stream  they  had  just  crossed,  how  it  came 
from  the  hills  and  was  journeying  to  the  sea;  and  now 
of  the  blue  sky  overhead,  and  the  stars  that  came 
out  when  the  sun  went  down.  Suddenly  they  heard 
a  howling  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  ;  and  a  cat 
made  furious  by  the  driving  of  some  mischievous  boys 
sprang  through,  and  darting  at  Geraldine  caused  her 
to  scream  with  momentary  and  involuntary  terror.  la 
an  instant  the  child  threw  herself  on  the  animal,  and 
though  its  talons  literally  ploughed  into  her  hands  and 
her  cheek,  and  though  she  fell  to  the  ground  in  the 
struggle,  she  relinquished  not  her  hold  on  its  throat. 
The  rage  which  flashed  like  an  electric  light  from  her 
eyes,  and  flushed  in  her  cheek,  so  altered  her  counte- 
nance for  the  moment,  that  she  would  hardly  have 
been  recognised  by  those  who  knew  her  best ;  but  it 
gave  way  to  a  quiver  of  scorn  round  her  lips  as  she 
knew  that  the  creature  was  strangling  in  the  grasp  of 
her  little  hands,  which  neither  Geraldine's  attempts 
nor  entreaties  could  relax.  They  were  alone  —  for 
the  urchins,  the  original  cause  of  their  terror,  had 
made  off  in  another  direction ;  and  not  till  the  unfor- 
tunate cat  had  ceased  to  struggle  and  was  dead  in 
her  hands,  did  the  child  fling  it  from  her  and  kick 
it  for  carrion  out  of  her  path. 

There  was  something  in  this  scene  which  terrified 


G£RALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  39 

Geraldine,  if  in  a  different  manner,  yet  in  a  much 
greater  degree,  than  the  furious  cat  had  done.  It  was 
the  first  gleam  she  had  had  of  the  stormy  passions  that 
slumbered  in  that  young  heart ;  and  she  felt  what 
giants  to  work  good  or  evil  were  crouching  there. 
Florentia  herself  could  not  understand  that  she  had 
done  the  least  wrong  in  giving  way  to  her  anger  ;  and 
how  could  Geraldine  chide  very  severely,  when  that 
anger  had  been  aroused  in  her  defence  ? 

'  What  shall  I  call  you  ? '  had  been  one  of  the  child's 
earliest  questions  to  her  protectress,  and  Geraldine 
pausing  a  minute  had  said,  '  Call  me  sister.'  So  sister, 
sister,  was  the  sweet  word  that  rung  daily,  hourly, 
in  her  ears,  with  a  harmony  of  which  she  never 
wearied,  suggesting  as  it  ever  did  some  thought  of 
affection.  Geraldine  asked  not  herself  how  it  was  that 
she  cared  so  much  less  than  before  for  her  acquaint- 
ances ;  and  yet  it  was  so ;  the  companionship  of  the 
loving  and  fresh-hearted  child  seemed  all  in  all  to  her. 
This  k)ve  was  her  one  reality  in  life.  Let  us  pause  to 
ask  if  it  clashed  with  that  which  was  her  soul's  sus- 
taining Idea ! 

Not  for  one  instant.  Distinct  as  double  stars,  they 
lent  each  other  a  light  —  blended  their  rays  it  might  be, 
but  never  disturbed  the  harmony  of  her  bding.  She 
wrote  to  Lionel  Weymouth  a  full  account  of  the  ship- 
wreck ;  mentioned  the  adoption  of  the  little  unknown 
child ;  described  her  extraordinary  beauty ;  sketched 
her  strange  impulsive  character ;  gave  even  the  anec- 
dote of  the  slaughtered  cat,  which  latter  incident  won" 
from  him  a  hearty  approval,  and  caused  him  always  to 
mention  her  as  the  little  heroine.     He  applauded  Ger- 


40  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

aldine's  adoption  of  her,  and  rejoiced  that  she  had  so 
interesting  a  companion  ;  and  now,  when  presents 
came  '  from  India,'  the  protegee  was  sure  to  be  remem- 
bered. But  the  gift,  however  gorgeous  or  costly,  was 
always  a  childish  toy.  Lionel  ..ad  been  told  she  was  a 
little  girl  of  nine  or  ten,  or  eleven  years  old,  and  forgot 
the  change  that  four  or  five  years  must  work  in  these 
early  spring-days  of  life.  How  swiftly  they  passed  by, 
seeming  like  a  dream  to  look  back  on!  —  yet  they 
opened  to  perfect  loveliness  the  budding  promise  of  the 
child,  while  they  stealthily  robbed  Geraldine  of  her 
early  bloom.  Still  she  looked  younger  than  she  really 
was;  as  they  always  do  —  when  compared  with  com- 
moner clay  —  who  have  souls  to  light  up  the  counte- 
nance, and  make  known  the  one  imperishable  beauty 
of  expression. 


CHAPTER  III. 

'  Be  tended  by 
My  blessing  !  should  my  shadow  cross  thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  so  put  it  back 
For  calmer  hours  in  memory's  darkest  hold. 
If  unforgotten  !  should  it  cross  thy  dreams, 
So  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  content. 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth.'  Texstson. 

Was  it  summer  or  autumn  }  Even  the  calendar 
would  scarcely  have  helped  you  to  decide  ?  It  was 
the  time  when  English  scenery  wears  a  gorgeous,  and 
yet  sober  hue  ;  when,  in  the  still  atmosphere,  the  dark- 
robed  trees  stand  motionless,  as  if  too  proud  to  sway 


GEEALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  41 

in  the  breeze,  as  they  might  when  decked  in  palest 
green,  or  laughing  behind  a  mask  of  blossoms ;  and 
when  the  garden-flowers  are  no  longer  those  richly- 
scented  children  of  the  soil,  that  came  like  heralds  — 
the  heralds  of  the  present  statelier  race. 

As  we  have  hinted,  Time  had  done  much  in  his  own 
quiet  way  during  the  last  few  years,  and  among  other 
things  a  certain  avenue  of  beeches,  mere  saplings 
when  Geraldine  fipst  came  to  her  cottage,  had  grown 
to  be  the  admiration  of  every  visitor.  Their  boughs 
just  met  overhead,  in  some  cases  kissing  and  parting 
at  the  bidding  of  the  faintest  breeze,  at  others  inter- 
lacing their  fibres  and  refusing  a  divorce.  Beneath 
these  trees  ran  a  hard  and  polished  gravel  path,  though 
at  their  very  roots  was  spread  that  soft  and  mossy,  dark 
green  turf,  which  tells  of  care  and  cultivation. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  warm  bright  day ;  the  sun 
had  already  sunk  far  below  the  horizon,  and  the  golden 
harvest-moon  decked  the  garden  landscape  in  that 
olden  beauty,  of  which  we  never  weary,  and  to  which, 
familiar  as  it  is,  we  still  find  paid  the  meed  and  word 
of  admiration.  Along  the  gravel  path,  beneath  the 
sheltering  trees,  a  young  girl  danced,  enticing  after  her 
a  favorite  greyhound,  whose  airy  movements  seemed 
typical  of  her  own  —  danced  from  the  mere  exuberance 
of  happiness  and  mirth  —  danced  to  the  only  music^f 
her  own  rich  singing.  Tuneful  as  that  of  a  bird  it 
was,  and  almost  as  wild  ;  for  though  Florentia's  deli- 
cate ear  saved  her  from  the  possibility  of  a  discord, 
she  was  wilful  in  her  ways,  and  finding  she  could  play 
—  to  please  herself — on  any  instrument  which  came 
before  her,  and  sing  after  the  same  fashion  to  the  same 


42  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

easily  contented  auditor,  she  positively  resisted  all 
study  when  she  reached  the  point  that  would  chain  her 
to  application.  Yet  her  snatches  of  song,  and  perfect 
modulation,  made  up  a  charming  music  nevertheless. 

And  so  she  danced,  her  full  white  dress  floating  in 
the  soft  breeze,  now  showing,  now  hiding  her  lithe  and 
graceful  figure.  A  scarlet  cashmere  scarf,  with  richly 
embroidered  ends,  had  fallen  from  one  shoulder,  but 
passing  by  her  waist,  was  gathered  lightly  in  her 
hand.  The  scarf  was  Geraldine's,  but  it  was  one  of 
Florentia's  wilful  ways  to  appropriate  for  the  moment 
anything  of  her  '  sister's'  to  which  she  took  a  fancy. 

Geraldine  Harmer  might  also  have  been  seen  in 
the  beech-tree  avenue,  but  walking  slowly,  and  some 
lookers-on  might  have  thought  most  calmly;  for  the 
shadows  were  too  heavy  to  show  the  fitful  gleam  of  her 
eye,  or  the  quiver  of  her  lip,  whenever  the  sound  of 
wheels  broke  on  her  ear,  or  the  listening  sense  was 
strained  to  fantasy,  and  mocked  her  with  its  cheat. 
In  her  hand  she  grasped  a  letter,  she  knew  not  why, 
for  every  syllable  of  its  brief  contents  seemed  repeated 
before  her  wherever  she  gazed,  —  on  the  sombre  trees, 
or  the  calm  cold  sky.  At  last,  at  last  Lionel  Wey- 
mouth had  returned  — even  now  was  speeding  to  greet 
her,  and  had  announced  his  coming  in  words  more  full 
of  tender  meaning  than  any  he  had  ever  addressed  to 
her  before.  She  felt  that  his  heart  had  been  through 
the  long  years  of  absence  as  true  as  her  own  ;  and 
her  frame  trembled  and  reeled  under  the  excess  of  her 
happiness. 

It  was  before  the  days  of  universal  railroads,  and 
trusting  to  the  uncertainties  and  delays  of  posting,  there 


GERALDINE A    LIFE.  43 

Is  no  wonder  that  Lionel  Weymouth  was  an  hour  or 
two  later  than  he  had  expected  to  be.  But  why- 
should  his  coming  at  all  bring  such  joy  to  Florentia  .? 
Simply  because  she  understood,  though  vaguely,  that 
Geraldine's  dearest  friend,  of  whose  goodness  and 
cleverness  she  had  so  often  talked  —  Geraldine  would 
scarcely  have  believed  how  often  —  was  coming  at 
last;  and  being  herself  always  quite  happy  —  happy 
to  the  very  filling  of  her  heart,  this  new  delight  brimmed 
over  the  cup  to  that  free  burst  of  joyancy. 

Hark  !  now  surely  that  is  the  sound  of  wheels ! 
Yes,  yes  —  nearer  :  ah,  there  is  the  clatter  of  the 
horses'  hoofs  upon  the  piece  of  shingly  road.  A  car- 
riage turns  the  corner,  and  now  the  postilions,  directed 
by  some  villager,  sweep  up  to  the  gate.  The  servants 
are  ready,  but  a  gentleman  has  sprung  out  before  the 
steps  could  be  lowered.  Florentia  no  longer  sings,  and 
for  a  minute  is  motionless.  And  Geraldine  Harmer  — 
she  who  at  this  moment  for  the  first  time  fully  realizes 
the  depth  and  truth,  and  intensity  of  a  love  which  has 
been  for  ten  years  a  portion  of  her  being,  is  she  also 
awed  to  silent  stillness  ?  Almost  —  and  yet  she  glides 
as  if  impelled  by  some  magnetic  force  into  the  deepest 
shadow  of  the  trees,  her  dress  of  darkest  velvet  does 
not  betray  her,  and  she  leans  against  a  friendly  trunk 
to  save  herself  from  falling.  The  hour  is  come,  and 
yet  her  heart  cries  out,  '  Not  yet  —  not  yet ;  it  is  too 
much ! ' 

But  the  stranger  sees,  by  the  full  moonlight,  the 
graceful  figure,  standing  like  a  white-robed  statue  in 
the  beech-tree  avenue  ;  recognises,  too,  the  scarf,  his 
gift,  and  bounding  thither,  clasps  Florentia  in  his  arms 


44  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

before  she  is  aware,  kisses  her  cheek  with  a  trembling 
lip,  and  murmurs  the  one  word  '  Geraldine  ! '  before 
a  laughing  voice  has  time  to  say,  '  I  am  not  Geral- 
dine ! ' 

He  starts — discovers  his  mistake  at  a  glance  — 
makes  a  confused  apology,  and  seeing  Geraldine  at 
last,  wreathes  his  arm  round  her ;  but  he  is  annoyed  at 
his  own  blundering  precipitation,  and  neither  kiss  nor 
embrace  is  so  warm  as  those  which  were  in  truth  the 
free  outbreak  of  his  feelings ! 

'  Is  she  not  beautiful  ?'  exclaimed  Geraldine,  an  hour 
or  two  afterwards,  when  a  late  dinner  or  early  supper 
being  concluded,  Florentia  had  left  the  room  for  a  few 
mmutes.  '  Is  she  not  as  beautiful  as  I  told  you  she 
was?' 

'  Beautiful ! '  replied  Lionel  Weymouth, '  she  is  the 
loveliest  creature  I  ever  beheld  !' 

Yet,  while  he  spoke,  he  held  Geraldine's  hand  in  his, 
and  had  already  found  fit  opportunity  of  breathing  in 
her  ear  the  hopes  and  aspirations  of  his  life.  It  was 
late  that  night  ere  he  left  for  the  hotel  where  he  had 
engaged  accommodation. 

And  now,  Geraldine  Harmer,  indulge  for  the  brief 
interval  you  may  the  ecstasy  of  pure,  unclouded  hap- 
piness —  the  dream  of  perfect  love.  Thou  bearest  the 
signet  of  thine  own  devotion,  in  the  humility  which 
wonders  how  thou  canst  be  so  well  beloved,  com- 
mingled with  that  unshaken  faith  which  cannot  doubt 
his  word.  Dream  on,  poor  woman  heart,  of  earth's 
choice  happiness,  and  life's  sole  reality — dream  on; 
the  hours  are  brief,  and  years  must  fling  their  shadows, 


GERALDINE — A  LIFE.  *  45 

ere  that  dream,  but  in  serener  shape,  shall  descend  to 
thee  from  heaven  again  ! 

Three  weeks  have  passed :  the  scene  is  in  London 
now.  Geraldinc  Harmcr  has  accepted  the  invitation  of 
an  old  friend,  and  with  Florentia  has  journeyed  thither. 
Some  indefinable,  yet  right  feeling,  pointed  out  this 
step.  Lionel  Weymouth  desires  her  daily  society  ; 
yet  they  are  not  to  the  world's  eye  betrothed.  He 
does  not  urge  the  declaration  of  their  engagement,  and 
she  instinctively  shrinks  from  it.  Kind,  affectionate  he 
is,  and  yet  —  and  yet  she  is  restless  and  unsatisfied! 
But  they  are  very  gay  —  as  gay,  at  least,  as  London's 
dullest  season  will  permit ;  and  theatres  are  visited, 
and  a  few  parties  are  gathered  together  to  do  honor  to 
Lionel  Weymouth. 

It  might  be  called  Florentia's  first  introduction  into 
society ;  but  she  had  none  of  that  girlish,  bashful 
awkwardness,  which  much  oftener  arises  from  anx- 
ious vanity  and  excessive  self-consciousness  than 
from  the  opposite  cause.  She  was  far  too  natural  and 
impulsive  a  being  for  anything  of  the  sort ;  she  had 
sprung,  it  is  true,  as  if  at  one  bound,  from  the  child  to 
the  woman ;  but  the  simple,  yet  warm  sincerity  and 
naive  vivacity  of  her  manners  had  a  charm  about  them 
as  captivating  as  it  was  indescribable.  And  her 
beauty  —  of  that  there  could  not  be  two  opinions. 
Strangers  raved  of  it,  and  on  seeing  her  again,  only 
grew  more  and  more  extravagant  in  their  expressions 
of  admiration.  Lovers  were  already  entering  the  lists, 
and  '  looking  daggers '  at  one  another  ;  but  awed  by 
some  mysterious  halo  that  seemed  to  encircle  their 
idol,  they  had  not  dared  to  avow  their  homage. 


46  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

As  if  to  make  amends  for  his  one  familiarity,  how- 
ever unintended,  Lionel  Weymouth  treated  Florentia 
with  a  marked  respect,  that  bordered  on  deference,  and 
had  something  singular  in  its  character,  when  the  dif- 
ference of  age  between  them  was  remembered.  At 
first,  it  could  not  have  been  quite  easy  for  him  to  main- 
tain, since  she  treated  him  as  an  old  and  familiar 
friend  ;  but  by  quick  degrees  her  manner  changed,  and 
while  to  three  fourths  of  her  acquaintance  she  was  still 
the  childish  girl,  to  him  she  was  ever  the  dignified 
woman.  His  respect  was  even  of  a  distant  kind  ;  for 
he  always  left  to  others  to  surround  her  with  those 
petits  soins  and  nameless  attentions,  so  many  were 
eager  and  ready  to  pay.  Yet  once,  when  a  fop  whom 
she  laughed  at  and  despised,  was  forcing  some  knightly 
service  upon  her  somewhat  against  her  will  —  folding 
and  arranging  a  shawl  for  her  shoulders,  I  think  — 
Lionel  Weymouth  was  quick  to  the  rescue.  But  why 
did  his  cheek  flush,  and  his  hands  tremble  ?  and  why, 
when  she  thanked  him  with  a  look,  and  passed  her  arm 
uninvited  through  his,  did  the  flush  change  to  paleness, 
and  the  common-place  words  he  strove  to  utter  die 
upon  his  tongue  .'' 

Geraldine  saw  the  look,  the  flush,  the  sudden  pallor ; 
but  she  only  drew  her  opera-hood  a  little  more  over  her 
face,  and  took  the  arm  of  the  discarded  stripling. 

It  was  the  next  day  :  Geraldine  Harmer,  who  had 
not  hitherto  in  her  whole  life  consented  to  a  subterfuge, 
for  once  planned  and  mancBuvred.  She  contrived  that 
Florentia  and  her  hostess  should  be  away  for  some 
hours,  and  this  during  the  time  that  Lionel  Weymouth 
was  sure  to  call.    He  was  shown  into  the  drawing- 


GERALDINE A  LIFE.  47 

room,  and  awaited  her  coming,  but  only  for  a  few 
minutes.  She  entered,  and  a  friendly  greeting  ensued  ; 
but  as  Gerald ine  passed  the  nearest  window,  she  drew 
down  the  blind.  It  was  a  cloudy  day,  and  yet  the 
light  seemed  gairish,  as  it  always  does  to  the  mentally 
oppressed  —  blinding  to  her  eyes  and  torturing  to  her 
brain.  Lionel  Weymouth  was  seated  in  an  easy  chair, 
and  presently  Geraldine  found  herself  leaning  over  the 
back  of  it.  She  felt  that  she  must  speak  without  being 
seen  ;  she  knew  that  she  could  not  control  her  coun- 
tenance. 

'  Lionel,'  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  yet  calm  tone, 
*  you  are  not  happy  ! ' 

'  Not  happy  !  oh  yes  ;  why  not } ' 

'  Be  frank,'  she  returned  :  '  do  not  deceive  yourself 
or  me.     I  repeat,  you  are  not  —  we  are  not  —  happy ! ' 

'  Geraldine !  '  It  was  the  only  word  to  which  it 
seemed  he  could  give  utterance  —  there  was  a  forced 
intention  to  take  her  hand  ;  but  a  stronger  and  truer 
impulse  restrained  him. 

'  And  yet,'  she  continued,  '  the  first  wish  of  my  heart, 

—  the  purpose  of  my  life  —  is  to  make  you  happy.' 

'  Best  Geraldine  ! '  But  now  he  stooped  his  head,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

'  Even '  —  and  she  touched  his  arm  as  she  spoke  — 
'even  if  your  happiness  must  take  a  different  shape 
from  that  foolish  dream  of  early  life.  Moreover  I 
blame  you  not  —  I  see  your  sufferings,  and  from  my 
soul  I  pity  them.' 

'  Oh,  that  you  would  despise  and  rebuke  me  instead 

—  your  scorn,  so  well  deserved,  would  be  more  endur- 
able than  such  compassion.' 


48  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

'  You  are  ungenerous  now.  Would  you  rob  me  of 
my  own  self-respect  ?  While  I  honor  and  esteem  you, 
I  shall  not  be  ashamed  of  —  and  her  voice  perceptibly 
trembled  — '  of  the  love  I  have  borne  you.' 

'  And  I !  Oh,  Geraldine,  if  you  but  knew  how,  for 
long  years  I  have  worshipped  your  image  —  how  every 
aim  of  existence  has  circled  round  to  one  dear  hope — • 
how,  even  now,  how  very  dear  you  are  to  me ' 

*  And  yet,'  interrupted  Geraldine,  '  you  love  Flo- 
rentia ! ' 

There  was  a  pause  ;  one  of  those  pauses  in  which 
the  tongue  is  chained  because  emotions  crowd  and 
crush  together,  paralyzing  every  power  except  the  keen 
experience  of  the  heart's  unutterable  agony.  What  he 
felt  was  but  vaguely  shadowed  forth  ;  less  clearly  told 
by  word  or  gesture  than  by  the  rigid  lines  of  suffering 
to  which  his  visage  moulded.  With  Geraldine  the  last 
ray  of  hope,  which  quite  unconsciously  to  herself  had 
lingered  in  her  heart  and  redeemed  it  from  utter  dark- 
ness, expired,  and  —  groping  for  a  moment  in  the 
gloom  —  her  reason  took  time  to  recover  its  balance. 
But  bravely  it  wrestled,  and  beautifully  her  soul  tri- 
umphed. 

'  Youth  has  departed,'  continued  Geraldine,  at  length, 
'  and  I  should  have  known  that  the  few  graces *' 

'  No  —  no,'  interrupted  Lionel,  seizing  her  hand,  and 
pressing  it  between  his  own  ;  '  I  will  not  listen  to  such 
words.  Take  me  —  for  I  am  yours  —  take  me,  and 
save  me  from  myself!  Take  me,  directly  —  to-mor- 
row ;  forgive  me  this  wandering  of  the  will,  and  I  will 
learn  to  look  upon  it  as  a  madness !  Take  me,  Ger- 
aldine ! ' 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  49 

'  To  scorn  myself —  and  blight  the  happiness  of  the 
two  beings  I  love  best  in  the  world?  Never!  You  do 
not  know  me,  Lionel  Weymouth.' 

'Oh,  do  not  draw  your  hand  away,  and  speak  so 
sternly.  Even  now,  in  my  humiliation  and  deep  mis- 
ery, it  is  your  sympathy  I  want.  And  yet,  Geraldine, 
it  is  well  for  you  to  be  cold.' 

'  Cold  ! '  ^t  was  but  the  one  word  she  could  utter, 
and  as  it  came  forth  it  seemed  to  freeze  her  lips,  and 
keep  them  parted  —  cold!  when  at  that  moment  she 
would  have  flung  herself  at  his  feet  to  be  trampled  in 
the  mire,  if  that  could  have  given  him  peace ;  cold  ! 
when  the  large  silent  tears  of  agony  were  falling  from 
her  eyes,  unregarded  by  him,  though  they  splashed 
like  rain-drops  on  his  shoulder ;  cold !  when,  for  one 
word  or  look  of  genuine  love  from  the  idol  of  her  wor- 
ship, she  would  have  thought  life  itself  but  a  fit  sacri- 
fice !  .  Yet  gentle,  though  heroic,  as  was  her  nature  — 
the  word  had  stung  her,  and  spurred  from  its  lair  that 
fiery  steed,  a  woman's  pride. 

'  Take  me,'  repeated  Lionel,  '  and  forgive  this 
madness.' 

'  It  was  the  past  which  was  madness,'  said  Geraldine, 
firmly  ;  and  her  tears  seemed  now  absorbed  by  the 
long  lashes  —  at  least,  they  fell  no  longer.  '  You  will 
marry  Florentia ! ' 

'  Yes,'  she  continued,  after  a  brief  silence  —  for  he 
was  speechless,  and  had  buried  his  face  in  his  hand- 
kerchief— '  and  by-and-bye  we  shall  smile  at  the  old 
maid's  "  love  passage,"  and  wonder  how  she  could  have 
been  so  foolish.' 

4 


50  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

'  Florentia  may  avenge  your  wrongs,  Geraldine,  and 
refuse  to  love  me,' 

There  was  something  in  these  words  which  again 
unnerved  her.  Refuse  to  love  him  —  that  seemed  im- 
possible !  But  she  spoke  calmly,  and  said,  '  I  have  no 
wrongs  to  be  avenged  ;  dismiss  such  a  thought  from 
your  mind.  And  —  and  —  Florentia  admires  you,  that 
I  know.  And  think  you  that  securing  t^r  happiness 
will  not  bring  peace  to  me  ?  Ah !  you  cannot  tell  how 
dear  she  is  to  me  —  dear  as  any  sister  could  have  have 
been,  dear  almost  as  I  could  fancy  a  child  might  be.' 

She  spoke  the  truth,  and  yet  her  words,  as  truth  may 
often  do,  conveyed  a  false  impression.  Lionel  Wey- 
mouth believed  at  that  moment  that  Florentia  was 
dearer  to  her  than  he  had  ever  been  ;  and  that  several 
wishes  and  feelings  worked  together  to  prompt  her 
present  conduct.  Her  resolution  might,  in  some  mea- 
sure, have  been  strengthened  by  her  love  for  the  object 
of  his  passion,  yet  not  in  the  manner  or  to  the  degree 
that  he  imagined.  Geraldine  Harmer  was  one  who 
acted  from  her  own  right  impulses,  yoked  with,  rather 
than  chained  by,  high  principles ;  yet  she  did  not  ana- 
lyze her  motives  narrowly  enough  to  find  how  noble  they 
were.  And  her  generous  nature  unconsciously  masked 
its  generosity  —  partly  from  that  interwoven  pride, 
without  which  no  character  has  dignity,  and  partly 
from  the  sensitive  delicacy  which  shrinks  from  making 
another  feel  the  object  of  a  sacrifice  or  the  recipient  of 
a  favor. 

Ah,  how  seldom  the  best  and  wisest  of  us  can  judge 
truly  of  another  !  Faults  and  weaknesses  rise  like 
straws  to  the  surface  ;  and  great  virtues,  thrown  up  by 


GERALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  51 

the  Storms  of  life  —  like  pearls  from  the  deep  —  be- 
come apparent ;  but  the  intermediate  world,  which  is 
that  of  habitual  emotion  and  daily  existence,  which 
makes  the  realities  of  life,  and  which  moulds  the  indi- 
viduality of  character,  is  seldom  fathomed.  No  won- 
der Lionel  Weymouth  failed  to  see  the  ruin  he  had 
worked ;  the  beautiful  palace  which  Hope  had  built 
and  Faith  made  strong,  laid  prostrate  in  the  dust ;  and 
Desolation  growing  to  a  giant,  and  brooding  over  the 
fragments  ! 

It  was  a  rapid  wooing,  that  of  Florentia  Lawson  — 
(Geraldine  had  bestowed  on  her  protegee  her  own 
mother's  name.)  A  few  weeks  and  the  wedding-day 
was  named,  and  no  one  paused,  or  had  paused  to 
consider  if  it  were  a  gulf  or  a  haven  before  the  pair. 
So  great  the  difference  of  years  between  them,  that  in 
her  happy  days  Geraldine  had  shrunk  from  making 
Florentia  her  confidante,  and  the  artless  girl  had  never 
suspected  that  the  most  dear  friend  of  whom  she  had 
heard  so  much  could  be  looked  on  in  any  other  light. 
Yes,  it  was  Geraldine's  praise  of  him  she  loved  that  had 
prepared  her  to  admire  him  ;  and  when  Lionel  came, 
she  saw  a  man  in  the  prime  and  pride  of  life,  with  a 
mind  well  stored  and  enriched  by  travel  and  observa- 
tion ;  though,  perhaps,  she  did  not  herself  know  how 
much  the  impression  he  made  on  her  was  deepened  by 
his'being  the  first  of  his  sex  who  treated  her  otherwise 
than  as  a  child. 

Geraldine  was  the  first  to  hint  to  Floi-entia  that 
Lionel  loved  her.  Partly  because  her  own  soul  once 
nerved  to  meet  the  destiny  which  was  before  her,  she 
felt  there  must  be  no  pause  or  hesitation  in  its  course  ; 


ra  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

and  partly  because,  generous  to  the  last,  she  was 
willing  to  prepare  his  way  before  him.  Startled  as  the 
young  girl  was  at  first,  surprise  soon  gave  way  to  an 
intoxication  of  delight ;  it  was  all  true,  and  in  a  few, 
very  few  days  they  were  betrothed.  Now  came  a  new 
trial  for  Geraldine  :  with  the  innocent  frankness  of  a 
child,  Florentia  would  sit  at  her  feet,  and  throwing  back 
the  rich  clustering  curls  from  her  face  as  she  looked  up, 
would  talk  of  her  happiness,  and  pour  out  her  praises 
of  7am.  The  admiration  she  had  first  experienced  still 
held  its  place  in  her  heart ;  and  side  by  side  with  it  now 
stood  pride  —  pride  at  being  the  object  of  his  choice. 
Nor  was  she  insensible  to  the  influence  and  charm  of 
his  wealth  ;  though  if  visions  of  future  magnificence 
floated  before  her,  it  is  only  just  to  own,  there  was  not 
one  in  which  her  dear  'sister'  had  not  place  —  was 
not  to  be  endowed  with  some  costly  gift,  or  pleased  with 
some  expensive  enjoyment.  But  if  she  was  proud  of 
being  chosen,  was  not  he  proud  of  being  accepted  ? 
Yes.  She  was  so  young  —  so  beautiful ;  and  when 
her  lip  answered  to  his  kiss,  he  felt  assured  he  was 
beloved ! 

Pride  —  admiration  —  passion  —  the  common  ele- 
ments wherewith  poor  self-deluders  think  to  build  up 
wedded  happiness !  As  much  material  as  can  be  ex- 
pected when  there  is  a  score  of  years'  disparity  between 
the  parties ;  unless,  indeed,  the  mating  be  at  that  later 
period  of  life  when  character  on  both  sides  is  formed 
and  developed,  and  the  difference  of  a  score  of  years 
or  a  score  of  weeks  would  be  equally  unimportant. 
But  Love  there  was  not  —  there  could  not  be ;  Love 
which  is  Sympathy,  and  of  which  the  fond  caress  or 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  Bi 

endearing  word  is  but  an  outward  and  earthly  type.  If 
we  speak  to  be  understood  —  yea,  if  we  only  think,  for 
another's  thoughts  to  flow  in  unison  with  ours,  not  wea- 
rying with  tame  monotony,  but  even  as  bright  rivers 
mingle  ere  they  reach  the  ocean,  bringing  each  to 
each  its  separate  wealth  and  separate  hue — enriching, 
strengthening,  beautifying  !  this  there  was  not. 

What  Geraldine  Harmer  endured  is  written  only  in 
that  book,  where  surely  beyond  the  skies  a  record  is 
kept  of  Woman's  trials  and  sacrifices.  Hours  of  des- 
pair, in  which  madness  with  all  its  terrors  hovered  near, 
and  death,  which  seemed  more  distant,  looked  like  a 
benignant  angel,  yet  one  forbid  to  aid  her.  She  made 
no  confidante  —  she  was  too  proud  to  do  so  ;  and  in- 
dulged not  in  demonstrations.  Still  it  was  impossible 
such  struggles  could  endure  without  making  sign  of 
their  work ;  but  the  cluster  of  acquaintances  we  call 
'the  world'  —  who  never,  I  believe,  by  any  chance 
guess  rightly  the  riddles  of  life  —  attributed  her  look- 
ing ill  to  the  fatigue  and  excitement  she  was  undergoing 
in  preparing  for  the  wedding.  Everybody  congratu- 
lated her  on  the  '  brilliant  match '  her  protegee  was 
making,  much  as  they  would  a  dowager,  on  the  like 
bestowal  of  a  portionless  daughter.  And  without  any 
positive  intentions  of  malice  or  scandal,  they  added 
half  a  dozen  years  at  least  to  her  age ;  as  well  they 
might,  for  the  lingering  traces  of  youth  had  departed 
suddenly  and  for  ever,  and  her  long,  fine  hair,  which 
only  a  few  weeks  since  was  dark,  and  rich,  and  abun- 
dant, now  showed  lines  of  white  that  seemed  to  thicken 
day  by  day.  Her  beautiful  hair !  of  which  she  had 
been  conscious  and  proud  —  even  a  little  vain  —  this 


64  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

too  must  be  laid  upon  the  altar  of  her  vanished  —  wasted 
Youth !  Strange  that  those  whitening  tresses  had  a 
spell  which  flung  a  shadow  in  his  path,  and  saddened 
Lionel  Weymouth's  spirit  even  on  his  Wedding  Day  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

'  If  I  be  sure  I  am  not  dreaming  now, 
I  should  not  doubt  to  say  it  was  a  dream.' 

Shellbt. 

Years  haye  passed  away ;  seven  years  at  least.  It 
is  a  bright  spring  day  —  when  spring  has  caught  a 
flower  or  two  from  summer  that  is  so  close  at  hand. 
Birds  trill  their  glad  notes  from  the  neighboring  boughs, 
now  in  gay  chorus,  now  taking  up  the  single  strain  as 
if  in  loving  rivalry.  The  buzz  of  busy  insects  fills 
the  air,  and  every  sound  and  sight  of  nature  is  typical 
of  joy  and  youth,  showing  once  more  the  old  and  yet 
the  new-born  graces  of  the  Hebe-Mother  earth  ! 

Soon  after  his  marriage,  Lionel  Weymouth  had 
purchased  a  beautiful  residence,  with  highly-cultivated 
pleasure-grounds,  within  an  easy  drive  of  the  metropo- 
lis. And  here  we  still  find  him.  But  those  seven 
years  have  brought  their  chances  and  changes,  and  life 
wears  to  him  now  a  very  diflferent  aspect.  He  is  seated 
near  an  open  window,  and  near  him  is  a  lady,  a  much- 
loved  visitor,  arrived  within  these  few  hours,  after  an 
absence  of  many  months  on  the  continent.  The 
reader  should  recognise  her  at  once,  for  Geraldine 
Harmer  is  very  little  altered  ;  or,  if  altered  at  all,  one 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  fiS 

might  say  improved  in  appearance.  She  did  not  look 
any  older  than  on  the  'wedding  day'  we  parted  from 
her ;  and  though  suffering  now  from  painful  anxiety, 
her  countenance  had  lost  the  habitual  shade  of  sadness 
it  then  wore.  It  would  seem  that  at  one  bound  she 
had  sprung  from  almost  youth  to  that  most  uncertain 
of  all  ages  called  '  certain  ; '  but  that  since  then,  Time 
had  passed  her  by,  without  claiming  his  tribute.  He 
had  even  stayed  the  bleaching  of  the  hair,  which 
showed  in  massive  glossy  coils  beneath  the  prettiest 
of  morning  caps  (a  Parisian  purchase),  which  Ge- 
raldine  wore  ;  the  few  lines  of  silver  among  the  braids 
which  shaded  her  cheek  being  by  no  means  unbe- 
coming—  they  never  are,  when  forty  years  are  fairly 
passed.  Nature  adapts  her  pictures  better  than  the 
inventors  of  patent  wigs  and  mysterious  hair  dyes,  and 
the  whitening  locks  harmonize  with  the  fading  cheek, 
with  which  youthful  tresses  only  contrast.  Then  Ge- 
raldine  had  the  good  taste  to  eschew  girlish  costume, 
and  dress  like  what  she  was  —  the  woman  of  forty-one 
or  two.  Having  mentioned  the  pretty  cap  therefore, 
I  may  add  that  her  dress  was  of  a  rich,  dark  silk  — 
made,  however,  very  fashionably,  and  which  set  off 
her  figure,  unimpaired  in  its  roundness  and  symmetry, 
to  the  greatest  advantage. 

I  really  fear  that  in  my  earlier  chapters  I  neglected 
to  describe  Geraldine's  person  ;  and  now  it  is  so  late 
in  the  day,  I  must  needs  be  brief.  Of  the  middle 
height,  with  fine  eyes,  a  pretty  mouth,  and  good 
teeth,  many  people  thought  her  still  a  very  '  charming 
woman  ; '  and  every  one  who  had  made  her  acquaint- 
ance lately,  believed  she  must  been  very  handsome  a 


66  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

few  years  ago.  Perhaps  this  was  not  altogether  true  : 
her  beauty  consisted  very  much  in  the  beauty  of  ex- 
pression ;  and  as  this  depends  on  character,  and  as 
every  development  of  character  with  her  had  been  a 
beautiful  one,  it  is  very  possible  that  she  was  better- 
looking  for  a  woman  of  forty  than  she  had  been  as 
the  girl  of  twenty.  She  might  have  married  within 
the  last  seven  years,  as  the  saying  is,  '  over  and  over 
again ;'  and  there  is  no  numbering  how  many  oppor- 
tunities she  had  had  of  choosing  during  her  tour  on 
the  continent  (made  with  friends  who  were  known  at 
every  court  in  Europe)  among  German  barons  and 
Italian  counts ;  but  not  even  a  French  peer,  who  was 
neither  old  nor  disagreeable,  could  make  her  appre- 
ciate the  privilege  of  embroidering  a  coronet  on  her 
handkerchief. 

Clinging  lovingly  by  her  side  was  her  godchild  and 
namesake,  Lionel's  eldest  daughter,  a  beautiful  girl  of 
six  years  old.  She  took  not  after  her  mother,  for  she 
was  grave  and  thoughtful  beyond  her  years,  and  loved 
better  to  hold  by  Geraldine's  hand  and  listen  to  her 
words,  than  play  with  her  gayer  and  younger  sister, 
the  little  Florentia,  who  was  just  now  alternately 
chasing  a  butterfly  and  trampling  down  the  flower- 
beds, or  gambolling  with  Misa  the  greyhound,  once 
before  mentioned  in  this  history,  who  was  grown  by 
this  time  an  old  dog.  But  Lionel  Weymouth  had 
much  to  say  to  Geraldine,  unfit  for  the  quick  ears  of  six 
years  old  to  receive ;  and  urging  that  her  sister  wanted 
her  companionship,  and  only  half-enjoyed  her  sports 
without  her,  he  enticed  the  docile  child  from  the 
verandah  to  the  garden. 


GERALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  S7 

For  a  period  that  might  be  counted  by  years,  Ge- 
raldine  had  been  content  and  serene  in  the  presence 
of  Lionel  Weymouth.  It  is  true  that  he  was  still  the 
dearest  object  on  earth  to  her  heart :  but  her  affection 
was  so  moulded  with  love  for  Florentia,  and  entire 
devotion  to  their  children,  that  there  was  not  one 
selfish  feeling  intermingled,  or  a  thought  she  had  need 
to  hide  from  her  own  scrutiny,  when  remembering 
him  as  the  husband  of  another.  As  much  could  not 
be  said  for  Lionel  Weymouth ;  for  though  worlds 
would  not  have  tempted  him  to  breathe  a  thought 
that  could  have  disturbed  the  serenity  he  knew  she 
had  regained,  there  were  regrets  and  convictions  buried 
in  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  own  heart,  which,  strive 
as  he  might  to  stifle  and  extinguish  them,  still  burned 
on  with  constant  power  to  torture.  Laid  out  as  in  a 
map,  he  now  could  see  how  blessed  a  lot  his  life  would 
have  been  with  her  whose  true  and  long-tried  love  he 
had  despised  and  rejected  !  What  had  it  been  for 
seven  long  years  ?  A  dream  of  unsatisfied  longings, 
whose  only  waking  reality  had  been  Disappoint- 
ment! 

'  How  kind  of  you,'  he  exclaimed  as  soon  as  the 
child  had  left  them  —  how  kind  of  you  to  come  thus 
promptly  at  my  summons !  Yet  it  is  only  like  your- 
self; for  I  never  yet  knew  you  pause  at  a  sacrifice  of 
your  own  convenience.' 

'  My  dear  friend,'  replied  Geraldine,  '  you  give  me 
praise  where  I  do  not  deserve  it.  My  coming  has 
been  perfectly  cpnvenient ;  and  now  only  let  me  stay 
as  long  as  I  can  be  useful.' 

'  Then  you  must  stay  for   ever,'   said  Weymouth 


58  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

mournfully ;  '  for  you  only  have  power  to  sway  Flo- 
rentia's  anger.  Even  to  you,  Geraldine,  it  is  a  self- 
laceration  for  me  to  confess  the  agonies  of  the  last  six 
months.  That  I  have  been  wronged  or  dishonored  I 
do  not  believe ;  she  is  alike  too  pure  and  too  proud  for 
that.  But  the  step  I  have  taken  in  prohibiting  this 
Italian  the  house,  and  intercepting  their  correspond- 
ence —  I  have  never  broken  a  seal,  but  burnt  the 
letters  unread  —  became  imperative  to  save  myself 
from  insult,  and  her  reputation  from  injury.  Nay, 
Geraldine,  do  not  weep,  for  your  tears  wring  my  heart 
more  than  my  own  sorrows.' 

'  This  dreadful  story,'  murmured  Geraldine,  '  seems 
more  than  I  can  realize.  In  the  same  house,  yet 
refuse  to  see  you  !  —  you  the  most  indulgent  husband 
I  ever  knew.  Violent  and  indignant  at  this  first  as- 
sumption of  authority,  and  declaring  she  has  ceased  to 
love  you ! ' 

'  For  a  long  time  I  have  known  that  mournful  truth,' 
he  replied ;  and,  as  he  continued,  his  countenance 
assumed  the  same  rigid  mould  of  suffering  which 
occasioned  once  before,  but  by  a  far  different  scene, 
was  never  to  be  forgotten  by  Geraldine  — '  for  a  long 
time  I  have  known  that  wretched  truth.  And  with  love 
extinguished,  sympathy  dwarfed  and  dying,  and  my 
imagination  shamed  from  the  falsity  which  painted 
everything  between  us  in  its  own  bright  colors,  I  have 
no  hope  but  for  our  children's  sakes  to  maintain  the 
respectabilities  of  life,  and  let  Appearance  cheat  the 
world  and  stalk  like  a  ghost  above  the  grave  of  my 
happiness.' 

'  Happiness ! '   the  word  was   echoed,  but   not   by 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  59 

Geraldine  Harmer.  At  the  moment  Lionel  had  utter- 
ed it,  Florentia  glided  into  the  room :  she  was  attired 
in  a  loose  white  muslin  wrapper,  her  long  dark  hair 
partially  gathered  up  with  a  comb,  but  two  or  three 
heavy  curls  still  falling  on  her  shoulders ;  her  cheeks 
were  colorless,  and  her  eyes  heavy,  as  eyes  become 
from  want  of  sleep,  or  from  the  '  weight  of  unshed 
tears.'  Geraldine's  first  impulse  was  to  rise  and  em- 
brace her ;  but  Florentia  waved  her  away,  and  resting 
her  hand  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  which  sepa- 
rated her  from  her  husband  also,  she  exclaimed,  '  Do 
not  touch  me,  my  sister,  my  friend.  It  was  because  I 
dreaded  your  affection  that  I  refused  to  see  you  an 
hour  ago.  1  feel  that  I  shall  lose  my  senses  if  I  am 
melted  to  softness  or  tears,  and  there  are  many  things 
I  wish  to  speak  of  calmly  and  clearly.' 

Geraldine  attempted  some  soothing  reply,  but  the 
words  died  on  her  lips  ;  and  both  she  and  Weymouth 
felt  awed  to  silence  and  attention. 

'lean  read  in  your  countenance,'  she  continued, 
addressing  Geraldine,  'that  he  has  made  his  deadly 
accusation ;  and  only  to  you  of  all  human  beings,  and 
only  in  his  presence,  would  I  deign  to  contradict  this 
foulest  charge.  Hear  me,  just  Heaven  !  By  my 
children's  sacred  selves  I  swear  it ! '  And  raising  the 
hand,  already  clenched,  above  her  head,  she  poured 
forth  asseverations  of  her  innocence  that  were  awful 
from  the  fervor  and  intensity  of  her  expressions. 

'  He  does  not  doubt  you  —  he  does  not  doubt  you, ' 
repeated  Geraldine  more  than  once  ere  the  wretched 
wife  comprehended  her  words :  '  had  you  entered  the 
room  but  a  few  minutes  earlier,  you  would  have  heard 
his  confident  assertion.' 


60  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Mechanically,  as  it  were,  Florentia's  eyes  wandered 
from  Geraldine's  countenance  to  that  of  her  husband, 
who,  visibly  affected,  returned  her  gaze,  it  might  be 
with  more  tenderness  than  she  had  seen  in  his  looks 
for  many  a  day.  She  took  the  hand  he  held  towards 
her,  and  pressed  it  for  a  moment.  '  If  I  have  not  to 
defend  myself,'  she  said,  but  sinking  now  into  a  low 
chair  that  was  beside  her,  '  it  is  fit  I  should  make  a 
confession  of  such  things  as  are  true.  Ah,  Geraldine 
Harmer,  you  little  thought  when  I  was  saved  from 
the  ocean  which  ought  to  have  been  my  grave,  that  I 
should  live  to  hate  my  life,  and  most  of  all  to  hate 
the  destiny  by  which  you  fostered  and  cherished  me. 
And  Lionel  Weymouth,  my  husband,  you  little  guessed 
when  early  in  our  married  days  you  showed  me  the 
letters  which,  still  preserved  with  care,  had  travelled 
to  another  hemisphere  and  back  again  —  the  letters 
from  Geraldine,  which  told  my  story,  that  their  perusal 
was  the  sowing  of  deadly  seeds  in  my  heart.  Little 
more  than  a  child,  I  was  ignorant  then  of  the  heart's 
wants  and  its  mysteries;  but  I  lived  quickly  —  and 
quickly  learned  a  dreadful  history.  Yes,  without 
knowing  one  detail,  I  know  it  —  have  long  known  it  — 
as  truly  as  if  I  were  conscious  of  them  all.  You  loved 
one  another!' 

'  Hush  !  '  said  Lionel  authoritatively ;  while  Geral- 
dine buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  and  could 
only  by  a  gesture  implore  her  to  be  silent. 

'  I  must  speak,'  continued  Florentia,  but  rising  and 
bending  over  Geraldine,  whom  she  caressed  like  a 
child.  '  Sister,  I  do  not  think  you  ever  knew  how 
much  I  loved  you.     Nobody  could  love  you  as  much 


GERALDINE A   LIFE.  61 

as  T,  because  no  one  could  know  you  so  well ;  and 
when  I  left  you  for  him  — yes,  even  then  there  was  an 
aching  void  in  my  heart  that  nothing  but  your  presence 
could  fill.  A  bad  sign  this,  was  it  not  ?  and  such  an 
one  does  not  appear  when  pairs  are  mated  by  years, 
and  sympathy  and  tastes,  and  a  certain  heart  affection, 
that  is  not  altogether  what  the  world  very  falsely  calls 
"  love.  "  Well,  the  deadly  knowledge  came  —  the 
knowledge  that  lifted  up  a  curtain  and  explained  every- 
thing which  had  seemed  a  mystery.  The  secluded 
youth — the  single  life — the  perfect  faith — and  the 
bitter  requital.  And  I  —  I  —  the  creature  of  your 
goodness  —  I,  who  so  loved  you,  to  have  been  the 
cause  of  a  life's  misery — I  who  would  have  died  for 
you  a  thousand  cruel  deaths  —  Geraldine,  if  I  am  mad 
do  you  have  mercy  on  me.'  And  Florentia,  falling  on 
her  knees,  flung  her  arms  about  the  other  as  if  she  were 
indeed  a  maniac.  Presently  tears  came  to  her  relief, 
accompanied  by  deep  drawn  sobs. 

It  was  a  dreadful  scene  for  all ;  but  one  that  was  not 
now  to  be  ended  suddenly  or  abruptly.  Like  swimmers 
plunged  in  deep  water,  they  could  not  touch  the  shore 
of  safer  discourse  in  a  moment. 

'  How  bitter  was  my  knowledge,'  purpued  Florentia, 
when  she  had  become  a  little  calmer,  '  words  cannot 
tell :  the  more  bitter  because  I  soon  perceived  that, 
grown  used  to  my  fatal  beauty  —  it  was,  that  you  both 
know  it  was  that  which  drew  him  to  me  —  he  dis- 
covered that  my  thoughts  were  not  his  thoughts,  my 
pleasures  and  pursuits  not  his.  It  is  pleasant  to  be 
pupil  and  teacher  sometimes ;  but  not  always,  as  we 
were.     He  wanted  a  friend  more  often,  and  I  was  only 


n' 


6S  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

a  plaything.  It  might  be  different  now,  for  my  heart 
has  grown  old  and  wise  lately  ;  but  love  once  burnt  out 
is  never  to  be  re-kindled ;  however,  I  too  had  discov- 
eries to  make.  It  is  not  good  to  analyze  one's  affections 
very  closely  —  happy  people  never  do  it — but  I  could 
not  help  such  weakness,  and  I  found  that  I  too  was 
unsatisfied.  I  found  that  I  wanted  the  companionship 
of  a  young  heart  that  hafl  everything  to  hope  for  in 
life,  instead  of  present  existence  to  enjoy.  I  wearied 
of  every  luxury,  directly  its  novelty  was  gone ;  I  wanted 
some  one  to  laugh  with  my  foolish  thoughts  and  foolish 
deeds ;  not  at,  or  worse  —  rebuke  them  ;  I  wanted 
some  one  with  whom,  not  from  whom,  hand  in  hand  I 
could  win  my  experience.  I  wanted  a  Young  Heart 
to  answer  mine,  even  as  he  wanted  one  as  wise  and  as 
gentle  as  yours.' 

'One  thing  more,'  she  continued;  'and  it  shall  be 
said,  if  I  die  in  the  telling.  In  him  whose  nan:>e  has 
been  slanderously  coupled  with  mine  —  the  young  poet, 
the  exiled  patriot  —  whose  heart  was  one  strong  spring 
of  hope  and  aspiration  —  whose  love  was  the  love  of 
life  or  death,  not  like  your  English  love  ! '  —  and  her 
lip  curled  scornfully  as  she  uttered  the  word  — '  not 
like  your  English  love,  whose  pulses  are  regulated  by 
the  jingling  of  your  gold  ;  in  him  I  recognised  the 
soul's  companion  God  had  portioned  for  me.  And  yet 
we  parted  without  a  sign  that  could  wrong  my  husband ; 
parted  with  the  cold  measured  adieu  of  friendship  ; 
parted  without  the  utterance  of  one  word  that  could 
open  the  tomb  of  either  heart !  Now  tell  me  for  what 
I  have  to  live  }  ' 

While  she  had  been  speaking  Florentia  had  taken 


GERALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  63 

from  the  table  the  jewel-hilted  dagger,  which  years 
before  had  been  intended  for  some  dark  though  unex- 
plained purpose,  but  which  from  its  costliness  had  been 
considered  latterly  a  mere  toy  and  ornament.  She 
took  it  from  its  sheath,  and  felt  with  her  hand  the 
temper  of  the  blade,  which,  blunted  no  doubt  by  time, 
and  rusted  from  neglect,  looked  a  less  murderous 
weapon  than  it  might  formerly  have  done.  Still  there 
was  something  in  the  action  which  terrified  Geraldine 
to  a  degree  of  which  she  felt  almost  ashamed,  and 
coupled  with  the  words,  '  Tell  me  for  what  I  have  to 
live?'  thrilled  through  her  whole  frame. 

'  Your  children,  Florentia ! '  she  exclaimed  with 
much  feeling,  and  attempting  at  the  same  moment  to 
take  the  dagger  from  her  hand. 

But  Florentia  started  to  her  feet ;  there  was  a  wild 
flash  in  her  eyes  which  even  Lionel  noticed,  and 
which  communicated  Geraldine's  terrors  to  him.  She 
clutched  the  dagger  yet  more  tightly  as  she  cried, 
*  My  children  !  they  will  be  better  cared  for  by  their 
step-mother  than  they  could  be  by  me ;  they  will  be 
better  loved  by  their  father  than  now,  when  the  only 
impediment  to  his  happiness  is  removed.' 

'  Florentia,  you  are  mad  to  talk  thus  wildly,'  ex- 
claimed Weymouth,  and  attempting  at  the  same  mo- 
ment to  wrest  the  dagger  from  her  grasp.  But  this 
was  not  to  be  easily  done ;  and  in  the  hand  to  hand 
struggle  which  ensued,  the  point  grazed  her  throat,  so 
that  the  blood  flowed  freely. 

'  Mad  —  mad  —  yes,  I  am  mad  ! '  she  cried  ;  '  but  not 
mad  enough  to  be  frightened  at  such  a  stream  as  this ; ' 
and  she  resisted  as  earnestly  as  she  could  their  attempts 
to  stay  the  bleeding. 


64  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

But  let  me  not  dwell  on  the  terrors  of  a  scene  like 
this.  Too  many  hearts  there  are  so  darkly  learned  that 
they  can  remember  tragedies  of  human  life,  whose 
lurid  light  enables  them  to  realize  and  understand 
those  storms  of  passion  which  happier  and  less  sadly 
experienced  mortals  can  but  feebly  picture  ;  scenes  in 
which  some  human  heart  seems  in  its  anguish  torn 
open,  its  sacred  depths  laid  bare,  and  unimagined 
horrors  dragged  to  light !  Before  midnight,  Florentia 
raved  in  the  delirium  of  brain  fever !  Raved  chiefly 
of  those  two  who  were  her  most  tender  watchers  — 
of  her  husband  and  Geraldine  Harmer  —  recognising 
them  at  intervals,  and  perpetually  joining  their  hands  ! 

Physicians  crowded  round  her,  but  all  their  efforts 
were  unavailing.  By-and-bye  her  thoughts  receded  to 
the  days  of  her  childhood,  and  she  talked  of  her  trop- 
ical home  and  her  dark-browed  mother  ;  yea,  even 
with  more  precision  than  she  had  ever  done  by  the 
light  of  life  and  reason  !  Oh,  Death  and  Madness, 
what  mysteries  are  in  your  presence  and  your  coming ! 

By  degrees  all  newer  memories  were  swept  from 
the  seared  and  troubled  mind,  until  she  spoke  only  of 
those  early  years  ;  of  Netta  the  negress ;  her  mother ; 
the  shipwreck  ;  and  the  scene  of  confiding  the  dagger  ; 
but  here  she  broke  into  the  jargon  of  that  mother 
tongue  so  long  forgotten,  and  the  words  which  might 
have  been  the  revealing  of  an  untold  tale,  died  on  the 
air  without  leaving  a  memory  or  a  meaning  behind 
them  !  And  who  shall  say  oblivion  was  not  the  best 
grave  for  a  record  so  dread  ? 

And  Florentia,  the  young  and  the  beautiful,  died  in 
the  flower  of  her  days ;  died  in  her  sorrow  and  mad- 


GEEALDINE  —  A   LIFE.  65 

ness ;  died  clasped  fondly  by  the  Two  whose  hearts 
for  long  years  she  had  sundered  ;  the  Two  whom  her 
death  would,  in  the  sure  course  of  measured  time,  again 
make  One  ;  the  Two  whose  souls  were  yet  so  wrung 
by  the  anguish  of  that  last  scene,  that  not  a  thought  of 
self  had  place  in  either  heart,  where  not  one  gleam  of 
light  from  the  future  had  power  to  dispel  the  agony  of 
the  present. 

It  were  a  common  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  Ger- 
aldine  Harmer  would  have  died  to  save  that  young  life, 
and  make  its  happiness.  She  had  died  a  darker  death 
Tor  her  sake  —  and  another's  —  years  ago.  And  not 
less  true  is  it  that  at  this  dread  hour  the  heart  of  Lionel 
Weymouth  melted  to  a  tenderness  and  atTection  he  had 
not  known  even  in  the  days  of  his  passionate  worship. 
The  girlish  wife  —  the  early  dead  —  the  mother  of  his 
children  —  the  once  so  wildly  loved,  were  attributes 
that  moulded  into  a  sentiment  and  took  root  in  his 
nature  too  deeply  henceforth  to  change  or  depart. 

How  strange  those  Two  should  mourn  the  Dead  to- 
gether !  —  and  yet  how  natural !  cherishing  each  token 
of  her  presence,  and  embalming  her  memory  by  every 
affectionate  tribute  !  Why  had  she  lived  at  all,  or  come 
like  a  meteor  across  their  path  ? 

For  some  great  purpose,  inscrutable  here,  but  de- 
creed by  a  Power  to  whom  our  wisdom  is  folly. 

How  strange  the  second  wooing  of  Gerald ine  Har- 
mer by  Lionel  Weymouth  —  and  yet  how  natural ! 
Life  now  wore  a  soberer  hue  than  it  had  done  some 
twenty  years  before  ;  but  if  happiness  seemed  less 
ecstatic,  it  was  more  serene  and  secure.  She,  whose 
5 


66         ENGLISH  TALES  AND  SKETCHES. 

woman's  life  has  thus  been  pencilled  forth,  is  indeed  a 
loving  'mother'  to  the  Geraldine  and  Florentia  — 
who,  '  sisters '  in  truth,  are  almost  shielded  by  guardian 
hands  from  even  children's  sorrows.  But  the  Life  of 
the  Heart  ?    Ah,  that  for  ihem  is  still  in  the  future. 

Time  heals  ever  as  he  touches ;  softening  even  the 
harshest  outlines  by  distance  ;  and  there  is  not  a  thing 
in  the  Past  of  which  Lionel  Weymouth  and  his  wife 
cannot  now  talk  freely  and  calmly.  They  stood  one 
day  near  the  drawing-room  window  already  mentioned. 
It  was  months  after  their  marriage,  and  two  years  since 
Florentia's  death.  Her  children  were  playing  in  the 
verandah  before  them  ;  the  younger  grown  a  little  more 
stately  with  the  incresise  of  two  years  to  her  little  life, 
while  the  elder  had  become  gayer  in  a  like  proportion, 
so  that  strangers  would  have  failed  to  see  the  different 
outlines  of  character,  which  they  who  loved  them  best 
nevertheless  understood. 

'  Geraldine,'  said  Lionel  —  his  arm  was  round  her 
waist,  and  he  had  been  looking  fondly  in  her  face  for 
a  minute  or  two  —  'Geraldine,  in  my  eyes  you  were 
never  so  beautiful  as  you  now  are.  No,  not  even  in 
the  bloom  of  youth.  I  loved  you  then  as  well  as  my 
untried  nature  was  capable  of  loving ;  but  had  I  loved 
you  as  you  deserved  to  be  loved,  I  should  not  even 
have  seen  the  change  which  I  suppose  ten  years  of 
absence  worked.  Or  if  I  had  seen  I  should  have  ap- 
proved—  should  have  felt  that  to  be  other  than  your- 
self precisely  would  have  left  something  wanting  — 

should  have  thought  and  known .'     He  paused  a 

moment. 


GERALDINE  —  A  LIFE.  67 

'  What?  '  asked  Geraldine,  looking  up,  and  fondly- 
kissing  the  hand  she  held  in  hers. 

'  I  should  have  known,'  he  replied,  '  that  Love  de- 
pends for  its  birth  and  existence  on  something  quite 
irrespective  of  Youth  and  Beauty.' 


THE    SHAWL   BUYER. 

•^  AN   INCIDENT    OF    1843. 

Branching  off  from  one  of  those  wide,  leading,  ever- 
crowded  streets,  which  are  aptly  called  the  arteries  of 
the  metropolis,  is  a  certain  insignificant  turning,  which 
not  even  boasting  itself  as  a  thoroughfare,  is  seldom 
remarked  by  the  hurried  pedestrian,  unless  he  have 
business  in  one  of  the  half  dozen  dull,  dingy  looking 
houses  which  rise  on  each  side  of  the  avenue.  Yet  at 
one  corner,  with  windows  embracing  both  sides  of  the 
house,  is  a  certain  shop,  which  may  be  called  linen- 
draper's,  hosier's,  glover's,  or,  if  you  will,  an  outfitting 
warehouse  —  so  varied  and  crowded  does  the  merchan- 
dise seem.  Perhaps,  however,  my  readers  will  better 
understand  the  description  if  I  call  it  a  ticketing  shop. 
Yes,  there  are  doubtless  at  this  moment  suspended 
the  Brobdignag  tickets  expressive  of  shillings,  accom- 
panied by  microscopic  pence  ;  while  ribbons,  gloves, 
and  other  trifling  wares,  are  placed  temptingly  for- 
ward, decorated  with  legible  inky  intimations  of  pence, 
which  on  a  nearer  inspection  one  finds  encumbered 
with  mystical  figures,  traced  as  it  appears,  by  an  HH. 
pencil,  and  signifying  three  farthings.     The  shop  door 


THE    SHAWL   BUYEE.  69 

faces  the  great  thoroughfare  ;  the  private  door  is  in  the 
narrow,  unfrequented  street.  The  latter  is  but  little 
used  ;  and  on  the  step  of  it  on  a  certain  day,  last 
October,  were  seated  two  meanly  clad  women.  Both 
were  apparently  in  abject  poverty  —  nay,  they  might  be 
mendicants,  for  aught  ihe  passer-by  could  tell ;  yet  if 
he  paused  a  moment,  and  his  eyes  had  the  privilege 
of  direct  communication  with  his  understanding,  he 
would  feel  assured  that  they  were  very  different  beings. 
Companions,  associates,  they  might  be,  and  were,  the 
strange  fellow-laborers  which  adversity  yokes  together ; 
but  this  was  all. 

The  younger  of  the  two,  who  looked  about  five-and- 
thirty  years  of  age,  and  whose  tattered  apparel  was 
black,  was  weeping  bitterly,  and  rocking  to  and  fro  on 
the  cold  stone  in  her  anguish.  The  countenance  of 
the  other  seemed  one  that  had  been  distorted  by  many 
a  violent  passion ;  and,  moreover,  was  not  unused  to 
the  debasing  influence  of  intemperance. 

'  Mary  Morris,'  said  the  latter,  addressing  her  com- 
panion, '  I  wonder  you  can  be  such  a  fool — to  grieve 
about  one  of  them  rich  people  !  Let  them  sicken,  and 
die  ;  what  should  we  care  ?  For  my  part  I  like  to  see 
them  suffer,  and  know  they  are  miserable  ;  it's  a 
comfort,  that  it  is.' 

'Oh,  Hannah,  don't  talk  so,'  said  the  other  through 
her  tears. 

'  But  I  shall  talk  so.  Don't  they  grind  us  down  to 
what  we  are  ?  You  say,  it  is  the  shopkeepers,  and  that 
the  ladies  know  nothing  about  the  price  we  get.  I  say, 
they  ought  to  know.' 

*  They  don't  think.' 

t 


■» 


70  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

*  But  they  ought  to  think.' 

'  Well,  Hannah,  don't  let  us  quarrel.' 

'  That  is  what  you  always  say  when  you  are  crying 
and  moping.  Only  yesterday,  said  I  to  myself,  she's 
getting  over  Nancy's  death  ;  and  though  we  may  be 
next  door  to  starving,  we  sha'n't  have  crying  and  wail- 
ing from  morning  to  night.' 

'Getting  over  Nancy's  death!  Oh,  God,  have 
mercy ! '  And  the  wretched,  childless  widow  raised 
her  thin  hands  and  streaming  eyes  to  Heaven.  '  O 
God,  have  mercy  ! '  she  continued,  *  though  unworthy 
am  I  to  ask  it.' 

'  Well,'  returned  the  other,  '  I  think  we  had  better 
go  home  —  such  a  home  as  it  is :  — two  chairs,  and  an 
empty  cupboard  ;  three  sticks  and  a  handful  6f  cinders ; 
two  cups  and  a  broken  teapot;  a  kettle  without  a 
handle;  two  forks  and  one  knife;  —  that's  all,  isn't 
it?' 

*  You  forget  the  bed  —  her  gift.' 

*  Well,  it  was  a  bed  which  we  were  not  used  to,  that 
made  us  oversleep  ourselves,  and  so  lose  a  day's  work.' 

'  Cruel ! '  murmured  the  widow  — '  because  we  were 
five  minutes  beyond  the  hour.  But  it  does  not  prove,' 
she  continued,  in  a  firmer  voice,  *  that  the  customers 
know  nothing  of  the  pay  we  get ;  because  it  must  be 
to  avoid  our  seeing  them,  that  they  give  out  the  work 
before  eight  o'clock.' 

'  If  it  had  not  been  for  our  coming  this  afternoon  to 
see  if  they'd  advance  us  a  shilling  on  next  week's  work,' 
muttered  the  elder  woman,  '  you'd  never  have  known 
who  bought  the  shawl  — I  am  sure  I  wish  you  didn't.' 

'  Oh,  Hannah ! '  said  the  widow  Morris,  '  be  human 


THE    SHAWL    BtJYER.  itl 

—  be  what  you  were  five  years  ago,  when  first  I  knew 
you,  or,  when  long  after  that,  you  and  I  and  my  blessed 
child,  first  made  one  room  our  home.' 

'  Now,  don't  preach.' 

'  I  would  rather  atone.' 

Very  different  was  the  scene  that  might  have  been 
witnessed  only  half  a  dozen  streets  distant  from  that 
cold  damp  step,  where  the  shivering  women  held  their 
strange  discourse.  A  party  of  three  —  father,  mother, 
and  daughter  —  had  just  finished  dinner;  and  though 
twilight  was  now  fast  deepening  into  night,  they  had 
not  asked  for  candles,  but  were  content  with  the  cheer- 
ing rays  of  a  bright  fire,  which,  as  almost  the  first  fire 
of  the  season,  was  doubly  enjoyable.  They  were 
something  better  than  a  merry  trio  —  they  were  a 
happy  one  ;  the  clouds  of  adversity  which  for  three 
years  had  darkened  the  world  to  them,  had  lately 
passed  away,  and  now,  with  grateful  hearts,  made  bet- 
ter and  wiser,  they  basked  once  more  in  the  sunshine 
of  prosperity,  and  tasted  its  sweets,  as  those  only  who 
have  known  suffering  can  do.  Mr.  Greville  was  a 
merchant,  who,  from  the  unprincipled  conduct  of  his 
partner,  had  been  reduced,  three  years  before,  from 
affluence  to  a  pennyless  condition.  Yet  he  had  had 
enough  to  pay  all  claimants,  so  that  his  honor  was 
unscathed  ;  and  my  sketch  from  life  has  nothing  more 
to  do  with  the  struggles  which  followed,  than  to  paint 
their  effect  upon  character.  Though  there  was  little 
probability  that  he  would  ever  again  be  a  rich  man, 
there  was  a  rational  prospect  of  ease  and  competence ; 
and  one  of  the  invaluable  lessons  he  and  his  family  had 


72  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

learned,  was  to  be  more  than  content  with  such  a  lot. 
His  domestic  happiness,  too,  was  complete  ;  for  Lucy, 
his  only  child,  was  about  to  wed  one  every  way  worthy 
of  her,  and  who,  having  been  tried  by  adversity,  had 
not  been  found  wanting. 

'  It  certainly  is  very  delightful,'  said  Lucy,  seating 
herself  on  a  low  stool,  and  leaning  her  head  against 
her  mother's  knee, '  quite  a  luxury,  once  again  to  have 
my  long  mornings  to  myself,  to  read,  or  work,  or  write, 
or,  best  of  all,  practise  myself,  instead  of  counting  one, 
two,  three,  to  dull  children,  and  suffer  the  torture  of 
wrong  notes  and  faulty  time.  But  all  is  for  the  best ; 
I  should  never  have  felt  it  to  be  a  luxury  if  I  had  not 
fagged  as  a  music  teacher  in  the  manner  I  have  done. 
So  do  not  draw  a  long  face,  dear  papa ;  I  am  a  great 
deal  wiser  and  better,  and  consequently  happier,  for  all 
that  has  happened.  Though,  I  suppose,  I  ought  not  to 
be  happy  to-day,  for  I  have  had  my  first  quarrel  with 
Edward.' 

*  Not  a  very  serious  one,  I  think,'  said  Mr.  Greville, 
*  or  you  would  not  smile  about  it.' 

*  I  hope  not,'  replied  the  mother,  anxiously,  '  for  I 
always  warned  you  to  keep  ofFthe^rsi  quarrel.' 

'  Dear  mamma,'  said  Lucy,  pressing  her  hand,  '  as 
if  we  could  really  quarrel !  The  truth  is,  now  that 
there  is  no  actual  necessity  for  it,  Edward  disapproves 
of  my  walking  out  by  myself;  and  though  I  tried  to 
make  him  understand  the  sure  protection  of  a  shabby 
dress  and  old-fashioned  bonnet,  he  only  answered,  that 
he  disapproved  of  them  also.  Now,  though  I  have  not 
quite  given  in,  we  have  come  to  a  compromise  ;  I  have 
promised  never  to  go  out  alone,  unless  there  be  a  real 


THE    SHAWL    BUYER.  73 

necessity  for  my  doing  so,  and  he  has  magnanimously 
left  it  to  my  own  conscience  to  decide  whether  there  be 
such  a  necessity  or  not.' 

'  Edward  is  quite  right,  my  child.' 

'  Perhaps  he  is  ;  but  after  having  taught  myself,  and 
not  easily,  to  feel  independent,  I  seem  to  have  lost  my 
liberty.  The  worst  of  it  is,  this  point  of  conscience  is 
more  binding  than  a  fixed  rule  ;  for  instance,  I  wished 
very  much  to  go  and  see  the  poor  widow  Morris,  this 
morning,  but  I  could  not  prove  to  my  conscience  that 
the  visit  was  one  of  necessity.'^ 

'  I  want  to  know  more  about  this  poor  woman,'  said 
Mrs.  Greville.  '  I  hope,  my  dear  Lucy,  you  have  not 
been  wasting  your  time,  and  sympathy,  and  money, 
upon  an  impostor.' 

'  Little  have  I  had  of  the  last  to  bestow,  and  my 
sympathy  I  could  not  withhold.  That  she  is  not  one  of 
those  faultless  heroines  of  humble  life,  which  are  found, 
I  suspect,  only  in  novels,  I  admit ;  and  if  we,  dear 
mother,  had  never  known  trouble  ourselves,  I  dare  say 
my  heart  would  have  hardened  against  her,,  when  I 
found  out  she  was  no  such  pattern  of  perfection.' 

'  I  can  hardly  fancy,'  said  Mr.  Greville,  smiling^ 
*  that  it  is  my  Lucy,  not  three-and-twenty  till  Christmas, 
talking  so  like  a  philosopher.' 

'  Better  smile  than  frown,  mio  padre ;  and  if  you  will 
promise  not  to  call  me  blue  when  I  talk  from  my  heart 
at  home,  1  give  you  my  word  I  will  discourse  glibly  in 
society  on  the  last  new  novel,  the  favorite  dancer,  the 
elegance  of  Louis  Quatorze  furniture,  Berlin  wool- 
work, and,  when  the  Exhibitions  open,  of  any  or  all 
the  pictures  to  be  found  in  the  Catalogues.' 


74  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

'Although  you  are  no  artist  ?' 

'  Certainly,  for  these  are  considered  lady-like  topics  ; 
and  though  I  start  and  almost  shudder,  at  hearing  the 
daring  and  opinionated  manner  in  which  the  utterly 
ignorant  and  inexperienced  talk  of  Art,  without  their 
seeming  to  guess  at  the  subtle  genius  and  tedious 
labor  of  the  artist,  I  observe  there  is  a  by-law  of 
society,  which  forbids  a  lady  conversing  on  many 
much  simpler  matters,  under  the  penalty  of  being 
caUed  Blue.' 

'  Pray  what  do  you  call  simpler  matters,  my  little 
enthusiast  ?' 

'  What  you  call  me,  papa,  a  little  philosopher  for 
talking  about,  but  which  seem  to  me  simple  truths, 
discoverable  by  almost  involuntary  observation  and 
reflection.  Not,  I  dare  say,  that  I  should  ever  have  ob- 
served or  thought,  had  I  continued  the  rich  merchant's 
daughter  — or  at  least  have  not  observed  or  thought  of 
the  same  things.  For  instance,  had  I  not  twice  a-week» 
all  the  spring  and  summer,  left  home  at  eight  o'clock, 
I  should  not  have  met  each  morning  the  poor  widow 
Morris,  and  so  could  not  have  observed  how  she  grew 
thinner  and  thinner,  and  shabbier  and  shabbier ;  and 
so  could  not  have  thought,  when  I  saw  her  (after 
missing  her  for  a  fortnight)  in  tattered  black,  and 
weeping  bitterly,  that  she  was  in  some  sore  affliction  ; 
and  thus  could  never  have  spoken  to  her,  and  learned 
her  history.' 

'  I  always  thought  her  very  wrong,'  said  Mrs.  Gre- 
ville,  '  to  suffer  you  to  enter  her  wretched  hovel,  only 
one  day  after  her  child,  having  died  of  small-pox,  had 
been  taken  from  it.' 


THE    SHAWL    BUYER.  Tft 

'  It  was  wrong,  mamma, '  returned  Lucy  ;  '  and  when 
I  discovered  of  what  disease  the  child  had  died,  though 
it  was  not  till  weeks  afterwards,  I  told  her  frankly  — 
almost  severely  —  of  her  error.  There  was  no  denial 
—  no  defence  on  her  part ;  but,  for  the  first  time,  I 
perceived  the  marked  difference  between  herself  and 
the  woman  who  shares  her  wretched  room.  No  change 
passed  over  the  face  of  the  latter,  unless  indeed  it  were 
not  a  fancy  of  mine  that  she  rather  smiled  than  other- 
wise, as  she  bent  over  her  work.  On  the  contrary, 
poor  Morris  trembled  and  wept,  as  if  some  new  feeling 
were  awakened  in  her  heart,  or  as  if  a  ray  of  light  had 
streamed  upon  her  dark  mind.     Since  then  ' 

Here  Miss  Greville  was  interrupted  by  a  servant 
who  entered,  saying,  '  A  poor  woman,  named  Morris, 
begged  leave  to  speak  to  her.' 

'  How  very  strange  !'  cried  Lucy,  —  'I  never  gave 
her  our  address.' 

'  Let  her  come  in,'  said  Mr.  Greville^  —  and  in 
another  minute  the  unhappy  widow  stood  before  them. 
Paler  she  was  than  ever,  and  either  she  was  grown  still 
thinner,  and  so  looked  taller ;  or  it  might  be  her  tat- 
tered mourning  hung  each  day  closer  and  closer,  or 
perhaps  some  innate  consciousness  of  acting  rightly 
made  her  figure  more  erect;  and  certainly  she  pos- 
sessed a  composure  and  dignity  of  manner  which 
sensibly  interested  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Greville.  Yet 
when  she  began  to  speak,  composure  seemed  gone,  for 
her  words  were  scarcely  articulate. 

'  Sit  down,'  said  Mrs,  Greville  kindly  ;  '  you  are,  I 
think,  the  person  for  whom  my  daughter  feels  very 
much  interested  } '    And  while  the  lady  spoke,  her 


IS  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

husband  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  for  the  now  trem- 
bling widow.  The  word  and  act  of  kindness  loosened 
the  flood-gates  of  her  soul  —  tears  came  to  her  relief 
—  and  in  a  few  moments  she  was  able  to  tell  her  story 
with  some  degree  of  distinctness. 

'  You,  my  lady,'  said  Mary  Morris,  addressing  Lucy 
in  the  style  which  the  very  humble,  to  lady  or  no  lady, 
usually  adopt  —  'you  have  often  listened  to  my  com- 
plainings till  the  tears  started  to  your  bright  eyes  ;  and 
indeed  —  indeed  —  I  would  not  risk  calling  them  there 
again,  were  it  not  that  what  I  have  to  tell  concerns 
you.' 

'  What  can  be  the  matter  ?  You  alarm  me,'  in- 
terrupted Mrs.  Greville. 

'  Under  heaven  the  danger  is  over,'  continued  the 
widow  solemnly.  '  I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  have  done 
right  in  telling  her  a  story  of  such  misery  and  abject 
want  as  mine.  Yet  that  is  past  —  she  has  learnt  how 
I  sank  from  being  a  respectable  servant,  step  by  step, 
to  the  wretched,  friendless  creature  I  am.  Forgive 
me  for  saying  friendless,'  she  proceeded,  turning  again 
to  Lucy,  '  I  §hall  be  so  again,  and  feel  as  if  I  were 
already.  My  marriage  ten  years  ago  was  against  the 
advice  of  those  who  knew  better  than  myself;  and 
when  I  found  out  that  my  husband  was  worthless,  a 
sort  of  shame  kept  me  away  from  all  my  old  associates. 
But  human  beings  cannot  live  alone  in  a  great  city ; 
and  from  shrinking  from  his  acquaintances  as  at  first  I 
did,  in  time  I  grew  to  tolerate  them.  This  was  my 
great  error.  No  wonder  that  when  the  hour  of  need 
came,  my  early  and  true  friends  were  disinclined  to 
aid  me.    They  had  lost  faith  in  me ;  and  though,  thank 


THE    SHAWL    BUYER.  77 

Heaven,  no  one  deep  sin  darkens  my  conscience,  a 
host  of  circumstances  in  which  I  witnessed  wrong  in 
others,  with  scarcely  an  opposition  on  my  part,  crowd 
my  memory  to  tell  me  they  were  right.  I  am  a  good 
needle-woman,  and,  when  my  husband  died,  might 
have  supported  ray  child  and  myself  in  comfort  and 
respectability.  But  there  was  no  .one  whose  word 
would  be  taken  to  speak  for  me,  where  I  might  have 
procured  good  work ;  and  wanting  daily  bread  as  I  did, 
I  gladly  accepted  the  wretched  pittance  given  for  what 
they  call  slop-work.  But  perhaps,  my  ladies,  you  do 
not  know  what  that  is  ?  ' 

'  Indeed  they  do,'  said  Mr.  Greville ;  '  are  you  not 
aware  that  several  cases  of  distress  have  come  to  light, 
in  which  the  hard  usage  of  the  employers  is  so  ap- 
parent, that  the  public  attention  is  drawn  to  the  subject, 
and  we  must  hope  some  increase  of  remuneration  will 
be  adopted.' 

'  I  told  her  so  —  I  told  her  so,'  cried  the  widow  with 
much  feeling.  '  I  told  her,  if  the  gentlefolks  only  knew 
how  shamefully  we  were  paid,  —  for  work  as  I  have 
done  for  eighteen  hours  a  day,  1  could  not  get  more 
than  seven  pence,  —  they  would  see  us  righted.  But 
she  always  said  no ;  that  ladies  and  gentlemen  never 
bought  our  sort  of  work  —  and  that  things  they  did 
buy,  they  would  have  at  the  cheapest,  without  staying 
to  think  if  it  were  possible  to  live  by  making  them. 
All  this  hardened  my  heart — which  I  thought  had 
grown  dead  to  every  feeling.  But  it  was  not  dead  to 
kindness  —  the  first  that  had  been  shown  to  me  for 
years.  It  was  a  few  weeks  befoi-e  my  child  died,  that 
instead   of   plain   work,   I  undertook    some    curious 


78  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

knitting  in  wool  according  to  a  certain  pattern.  How- 
ever, the  work  was  so  much  more  tedious  than  I 
expected,  that  the  lady  for  whom  it  was  ordered,  made 
some  other  purchase  instead,  which  induced  the  shop- 
keeper to  take  it  on  his  own  hands.  And  being  a 
winter  article,  never  till  this  morning  was  it  unpacked 
and  exposed  in  his  window  for  sale.' 

'  Go  on,'  said  Lucy,  for  the  widow  paused  —  '  go 
on  ;  I  cannot  guess  what  all  this  leads  to.' 

'  Do  you  remember,'  proceeded  Mary  Morris,  in 
a  quivering  voice,  —  'do  you  remember  how  you 
trembled  and  turned  pale,  when  you  first  learned  my 
little  Nancy  had  died  of  small-pox  .''  We  had  been 
too  poor  to  pay  for  her  vaccination  —  and  —  and  — 
like  many  others  —  too  idle  —  too  thoughtless  to  take 
her  where  it  would  have  been  done  for  nothing.  Do 
you  remember  how  you  reproved  me  for  my  negli- 
gence, which,  perhaps,  I  should  have  heeded  less,  had 
you  not  told  me  that  you  had  an  especial  dread  of  the 
disease,  having  lost  a  dear  friend  by  it,  who,  like  your- 
self, had  never  been  susceptible  of  the  usual  prevent- 
ative .''  Do  you  remember  how  you  implored  me  to 
destroy  every  article  belonging  to  the  child  ?  Lady 
—  lady  — '  and  the  widow's  voice  rose  with  her  emo- 
tion —^'  lady,  the  black  and  crimson  knitted  shawl  you 
bought  this  morning  was  knitted  in  that  infected  cham- 
ber, and  even,  from  our  scarcity  of  clothing,  was 
wrapped  round  my  dying  Nancy  !  ' 

'  Horrible  —  horrible  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Greville, 
starting  from  her  chair.  '  Lucy  —  surely,  Lucy,  you 
have  not  worn  it }  ' 

'  Be  calm,  dear   mother,'    replied   Miss  Greville, 


THE    SHAWL   BUYER.  79 

with  tearful  eyes  —  '  I  have  not  even  touched  it, 
except  with  my  glove.' 

'  Thank  God  ! '  murmured  Mary  Morris. 

'  It  was  to  be  sent  home  this  evening,'  continued 
Lucy  ;  '  I  do  not  think  it  is  yet  come.' 

'  And  never  will,'  returned  the  widow,  '  every  par- 
ticle is  reduced  to  ashes.' 

'  My  poor  Morris,'  said  Lucy,  touched  to  the  heart, 
*  tell  us  how  you  have  done  this  —  how  you  could  do 
it.' 

'  You  will  bear  with  me,  while  I  tell  all  my  thoughts : ' 
and  the  poor  woman  felt  that  her  audience  was  no  in- 
different one.  *  I  know  not  what  it  may  be,  but  I  do 
know  that  a  cloud  has  passed  over  you,  and  that,  young 
as  you  are,  you  have  seen  sorrow.  It  was  this  that 
made  your  words  go  to  my  heart,  for  they  came  from 
yours ;  it  was  this  that  made  you  wise,  oh  !  so  much 
wiser  than  many  that  are  old.  It  was  this  that  taught 
me  to  tell  you  my  griefs,  and  to  own  my  errors  ;  for 
the  very  happy  —  those  who  have  always  been  happy 
—  seldom  understand  sorrow;  and  it  is  hard  to  make 
them  comprehend  the  temptations  of  poverty.  It  was 
you  who  taught  me  to  feel  human  affection  again  —  for 
I  knew  that  I  loved  you  when  I  found  I  rejoiced  that 
your  eye  was  brighter,  your  cheek  more  rosy,  your  step 
more  light,  and  your  voice  more  cheerful  than  before. 
You  were  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  handsome  gentleman 
to-day,  when  I  saw  you  admire,  through  the  window, 
that  very  infected  shawl ;  and  I  knew  by  the  turn  of 
his  head  that  he  loved  you,  and  I  knew  that  you  would 
not  suffer  one  to  look  so,  if  his  love  were  not  allowed. 
I  saw  you  go  into  the  shop  ;  I  saw  the  shawl  taken 


80  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

down  ;  I  peered  through  the  door,  and  knew  that  you 
bought  it.  My  heart  smote  me,  but  my  thoughts  were 
too  confused  for  me  to  act  at  the  moment  —  nor  was 
my  conscience  thoroughly  awakened  till  afterwards. 
I  pictured  you  sick  and  suffering,  I  thought  even  you 
might  die  —  or  I  thought  you  might  rise  changed,  dis- 
figured, with  beauty  for  ever  gone  —  and  I  thought, 
would  the  handsome  gentleman  love  you  the  same  as 
now  ?  for  lady,  dear  young  lady,  such  things  have 
been  ;  and  the  woman  who  is  loved,  should  cherish 
her  beauty  yet  more  than  she  who  hopes  to  win  a 
heart.  Well,  all  these  thoughts  struggling  in  my  mind 
made  me  nearly  wild.  I  went  to  the  shopkeeper,  and 
told  him  the  story  :  he  only  laughed,  until  I  threatened 
to  relate  it  to  you.  I  afterwards  manoeuvred  to  see  the 
parcel,  which  was  packed  and  directed,  for  as  I  evi- 
dently knew  you,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  I  was 
ignorant  of  your  address,  and  so  he  took  no  pains  to 
conceal  it.  On  my  returning  him  the  four  shillings  he 
paid  me  for  the  knitting,  and  the  three  shillings  the 
material  cost,  he  at  last  gave  it  up  ;  and  he  will  tell 
you  a  version  of  the  story,  taking,  no  doubt,  some 
credit  to  himself,  and  beg  you  to  receive  some  other 
article  for  the  pound  at  which  I  saw  it  was  priced.' 

'  Your  conduct,'  said  Mr.  Greville,  with  emotion, 
'  has,  in  this  instance,  been  so  admirable,  that  it  ex- 
tenuates a  hundred  faults.  But,  in  the  abject  poverty 
you  describe,  how  did  you  procure  the  sum  of  seven 
shillings  ?  ' 

'I  —  1  —  pawned  the  bed  the  dear  young  lady  sent 
me  yesterday.' 

'  But  you  shall  sleep  on  it  to-night,'  cried  Mr.  Gre- 


THE   SHAWL   BUTEB.  8t^ 

ville,  drawing  a  sovereign  from  his  purse, '  with  an  easy 
conscience,  and,  I  trust,  a  lighter  heart  than  usual.' 

'It  cannot  be,'  said  the  widow,  calmly  —  'though 
my  heart  is  lighter,  and  I  am  happier  than  I  have  been 
for  many  years.  I  feel  once  more  that  I  may  dare  to 
hope  to  meet  my  little  Nancy  in  Heaven  —  and  in  this 
world  I  am  resigned  to  my  fate.' 

'  What  is  it  you  mean  }  ' 

'I  must  tell  you  the  whole  truth  —  though  I  did  not 
mean  it  —  or  you  will  misjudge  me.  Hannah  Wilkins 
and  I  have  parted  —  indeed,  though  we  rented  the  room 
between  us,  the  things  are  all  hers.  The  scraps  I  had 
were  made  away  with  when  poor  Nancy  lay  ill.' 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Mr.  Greville,  with  some  penetration, 
'she  quarrelled  with  you  for  parting  with  the  bed  ?' 

The  widow  bowed  her  head,  and  tears  again  gushed 
forth. 

'  Whatever  present  inconvenience  may  arise  to  you,' 
continued  Mr.  Greville, '  I  rejoice  at  the  separation  ;  for 
it  is  evident  to  me,  that  your  companion  has  heightened 
every  temptation  which  has  crossed  your  path,  and 
weakened  every  good  resolution  that  has  arisen  in  your 
mind.  Above  most  things,  should  rich  or  poor  shun 
such  associates.  Now  that  I  have  learned  your  story, 
I  recognise  you  as  persons  of  whom  I  chanced  the 
other  day  to  hear  something.  It  may  be  some  encour- 
agement for  the  future,  for  you  to  know  that  even  the 
poor  pittance  you  have  been  able  to  earn,  has  been  in 
consequence  of  your  better  character.  Her  future  is 
easily  seen,  —  she  will  sink  to  perfect  beggary.  But 
tell  me,  have  you  a  roof  to  shelter  you  ? ' 

*  I  thought  you  would  have  reproached  me,'  sobbed 
6 


82  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

the  widow  — '  turned  me  away  from  your  door.  And 
I  am  used  to  anger  and  upbraidings.  I  never  thought 
I  should  tell  you  —  I  go  to-night  to  ask  admission  into 
the  workhouse.' 

'  No,  no,'  cried  Mr.  Greville  —  'no  need  for  that.' 

*  Suppose,'  said  Lucy,  laying  her  hand  kindly  on  the 
widow's  arm  — '  suppose  you  take  the  sovereign  papa 
has  placed  before  you  —  recover  your  bed  —  hire  a 
clean  little  room  to  yourself — and  — ' 

'  We  will  find  some  oddments  to  furnish  it,'  said 
Mrs.  Greville,  continuing  the  speech  her  daughter  had 
hesitated  finishing. 

'  And  you  shall  make  me  a  shawl,  precisely  like 
that  I  bought  to-day,'  exclaimed  Lucy  ;  '  and  for  your 
labor  you  shall  be  fairly  paid  ;  —  this  will  be  a  begin- 
ning, till  we  can  find  more  regular  work  for  you.' 

'  I  think,'  said  Mrs.  Greville,  with  a  smile  that  made 
Lucy  blush — '  I  think  we  alone  shall  find  plenty  of  work 
for  you  between  this  and  Christmas,  —  for  a  wedding 
without  new  clothes  is  like  —  is  like ' 

'  Christmas  without  plum-pudding,'  said  Mr.  Gre- 
ville, impatient  for  a  simile. 

'  Summer  without  flowers,'  cried  his  more  poetical 
wife. 

The  widow  was  too  happy  for  aught  save  tears,  and 
blessings  on  her  benefactors. 

'  I  wonder,'  murmured  Mr.  Greville,  after  a  long 
pause — 'I  wonder  if,  when  we  cannot  be  roused  to 
humanity  by  the  knowledge  of  suffering,  it  is  decreed 
that  we  must  be  frightened  into  it  in  self-defence  } 
Little  he  knows,  I  fear,  of  the  human  heart,  who  has 
never  been  tempted ! ' 


THE    SHAWL   BUYER.  ^'. 

Should  this  sketch  from  real  life  meet  the  eye  of  a 
child  of  toil,  of  want,  of  penury,  not  in  vain  will  it 
have  been  committed  to  paper,  if  a  sentence  therein 
strengthens  one  good  resolve,  or  loosens  one  strong 
chain  of  habit  that  binds  to  evil  thoughts  or  bad  exam- 
ple. Not  in  vain,  if  it  makes  him  understand  that  the 
rich  cannot  relieve  the  want  they  do  not  know.  And, 
oh  !  not  in  vain,  if  it  makes  some  favorite  of  fortune 
turn  with  pitying  heart  and  open  hand  to  the  toil-worn 
and  starving.  Not  too  ambitious  for  a  prayer  is  it, 
that  my  simple  story  may  be  one  of  the  many  grains 
in  the  heavy  balance,  to  prompt  our  country's  Sages 
and  Senators,  to  plan  wisely  for  their  humble,  op- 
pressed, but  industrious  countrywomen,  whose  ill- 
repaid,  life-wearing  toil,  has  lately  been  brought  to 
their  notice. 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY. 

A    STOST    IN    SIX    CHAPTEBS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Are  not  Houses  strangely  typical  of  their  Inhab- 
itants, or,  is  it  that  when  we  know  both,  we  grow  to 
identify  them  one  with  the  other  ?  It  may  sometimes 
be  so ;  yet  certainly  there  was  a  natural  harmony 
between  Lauder  Manor  House  and  the  family  which 
occupied  it  a  very  few  years  ago.  It  was  a  substantial 
red-brick  pile,  not  purely  in  the  Elizabethan  style,  yet 
reminding  a  stranger  of  it,  and  to  the  impressible  ob- 
server suggestive  of  staid  propriety,  of  monotonous 
routine,  and  of  a  hospitality  more  likely  to  be  measured 
and  precise,  than  impulsive  and  genial.  It  was  a  noble 
building,  nevertheless ;  though  so  hidden,  as  if  with  a 
proud  reserve,  by  old  solemn  trees,  that  only  when 
winter  had  bared  their  branches,  could  the  house  at  all 
be  seen,  from  even  the  distance  of  a  few  hundred  yards. 
The  grounds  were  extensive,  and,  to  a  certain  degree, 
well  cultivated ;  but  the  head  gardener  was  old,  and 
old-fashioned,  and  no  one  ever  thought  of  coming  to 
Lady  Macdonald  for  a  choice  flower  or  early  fruit. 

There  was  a  stately  portico  to  Lauder  House,  which 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       85 

ed  into  a  large  square  hall,  tesselated  with  black  and 
white  marble.  One  side  of  the  hall  was  nearly  oc- 
cupied by  a  chamber  organ,  opposite  to  which  stretched 
a  wide  fire-grate,  which  had  been  artificially  contracted 
by  an  iron  back  and  false  sides  ;  while  the  tall  mantel- 
piece was  surmounted  by  various  showy  heraldic  em- 
blazonments. But  what  visitors  chiefly  noticed,  and 
what  faced  them  on  their  entrance,  was  a  glazed  press, 
in  which  rested  the  faded,  tarnished,  moth-eaten  coat 
of  a  general  officer,  together  with  his  sword  and  gloves. 
The  reception  rooms  —  all  on  the  ground-floor  —  were 
spacious,  but  not  very  lofty,  and,  though  furnished  in 
a  substantial  and  even  costly  manner,  were  singularly 
devoid  of  modern  adornments.  For  nearly  forty  years 
the  style  of  that  mansion  had  remained  unchanged  ; 
and  yet  there  was  nothing  about  expressive  of  decay. 
Chintz  had  been  replaced  by  chintz,  once,  twice,  thrice, 
of  a  similar  pattern  to  that  which  Lady  Macdonald  had 
esteemed  in  her  bridal  days.  Picture  and  looking-glass 
frames  had  been  re-gilt,  but  never  changed,  and  the 
vulture-like  bird  that  surmounted  a  convex  mirror,  and 
held  in  its  beak  a  necklace  of  glass,  seemed  as  brightly 
burnished  in  184-,  as  it  could  have  been  when  the 
century  was  new.  At  least  there  was  no  anachronism 
in  the  furniture  ;  the  sideboard  beneath  the  mirror  was 
spindle-legged  ;  the  dining-table  before  it  was  long  and 
narrow  ;  the  heavy  moreen  curtains  were  edged  with 
black  velvet ;  and  the  leathern  chairs  were  of  that 
awkward  shape  common  before  the  revival  of  high 
backs. 

Neither  did  the  drawing-room  chintz  cover  lounging 
fauteuils  or  comfortable  ottomans.     True,  there  were 


86  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

a  couple  of  large  bed-like  sofas,  with  straggling  sofa- 
tables  drawn  before  them,  but  Rip,  the  old  Blenheintj 
spaniel,  had  far  more  comfort  of  the  cushions  than 
any  one  else.  At  any  rate.  Lady  Macdonald  was 
consistent;  and  as  she  expected  starched  propriety 
from  others,  she  did  not  indulge  in  lounging  habits 
herself. 

Three  sides  of  the  house  were  bleak-looking  and 
bare,  but  the  south  wall  —  which,  by  the  way,  looked 
only  towards  the  kitchen  garden  —  was  almost  covered 
with  jasmines  and  China  roses  ;  the  branches  of  which 
peeped  into  the  windows  of  a  room  that  was  still  called 
a  nursery,  although  its  chief  occupant,  the  grand- 
daughter of  Lady  Macdonald,  was  already  sixteen,  and 
womanly  for  her  years.  At  the  time  to  which  I  allude, 
she  was  said  to  be  finishing  her  education  under  a 
German  governess. 

But  before  I  speak  of  Agnes,  I  must  go  back,  and 
trace  the  outlines  of  a  life,  that  in  its  marked,  unbend- 
ing course,  had  exercised  a  strange  influncee  over 
the  destiny  of  others.  Lady  Macdonald,  nee  Margaret 
Ford,  was  in  right  of  her  mother  an  heiress,  and 
endowed  by  nature  with  no  ordinary  share  of  self- 
possession  and  self-esteem  ;  the  education  bestowed  on 
her,  with  perpetual  reference  to  her  future  position,  had 
fostered  and  developed  her  innate  qualities,  until  pride 
became  her  dominant  characteristic.  But  it  was  a 
pride  allied  to  excellent  abilities  and  strict  integrity- 
When  she  was  eighteen,  her  father  shocked  and  of 
fended  her  —  for  from  sheer  force  of  character  she 
was  already  the  one  to  receive  appeals,  not  offer  them 
—  by  making  a  second  marriage,  choosing  a  wife  who 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       87 

had  youth  and  beauty,  but  was  of  poor  and  obscure 
family. 

The  young  wife  must  have  quailed  at  the  haughty 
reception  given  by  her  step-daughter ;  and  yet  it  was 
a  sort  of  haughtiness  that  had  in  it  nothing  tangible 
enough  to  justify  resentment.  Perhaps  her  father's 
marriage  hastened  a  decision  which  she  never  found 
occasion  to  repent.  From  many  suitors  of  high  degree, 
she  chose  an  elderly  Peninsular  officer,  of  ancient 
Scottish  lineage,  who  had  won  green  laurels  to  cover 
his  scars,  had  obtained  Ynore  honor  than  gold,  and  had 
refused  a  Baronetcy  until  it  was  accompanied  by  a 
Military  order  of  Knighthood. 

To  do  her  justice,  the  heiress  was  neither  avaricious 
nor  purse-proud  ;  she  made  a  handsome  life-settlement 
on  her  father,  notwithstanding  his  mesalliance ;  and 
notwithstanding  her  wealth,  her  youth,  her  beauty,  and 
her  own  '  sixteen  quarterings,'  she  thought  herself  en- 
nobled in  becoming  the  wife  of  General  Sir  Andrew 
Macdonald.  Perhaps  it  was  only  such  a  husband  that 
she  could  ever  honestly  have  promised  to  obey.  But 
he  had  commanded  men,  and  led  them  on  to  great 
deeds ;  and,  without  a  sacrifice,  she  could  bend  her 
spirit  to  his.  Had  she  been  a  vain  woman,  she  would 
doubtless  have  proved  a  heedless,  selfish,  self-willed 
wife,  striving  to  rule  her  middle-aged  lord  ;  but  she  was 
a  proud  one,  and  a  part  of  her  pride  was  to  be  meek, 
loving,  gentle,  and  obedient  to  him.  They  were  ad- 
mirably mated,  and  the  few  years  of  their  wedded  life 
were  supremely  happy. 

Meanwhile  two  daughters  were  born  to  her  father, 
aud  she  herself  became  the  mother  of  an  only  son. 


88  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Years  passed  on ;  and  in  Life's  kaleidoscope  changes, 
Death  was  busy.  First  Sir  Andrew,  whose  constitution 
had  never  thoroughly  recovered  the  trials  of  military 
service,  passed  to  the  tomb,  leaving  his  young  wife  sole 
guardian  of  their  son.  I  do  not  pause  to  tell  of  the 
widow's  grief.  Lady  Macdonald  had  deep  affections 
beneath  her  pride,  though  they  were  less  demonstrative 
in  gladness  than  capable  of  being  probed  by  pain. 
Next  faded  and  died  her  father's  wife ;  and  Mr.  Ford, 
now  an  old  man,  did  not  long  survive  the  breaking  up 
of  his  domestic  life  ;  —  the  shadow  that  fell  where  a 
cheerful  presence  had  been,  seemed  always  beckoning 
him  to  follow.  Mary  Ford  was  fifteen,  and  Hester 
thirteen,  when  they  were  orphaned  —  thrown  on  the 
charity  of  their  wealthy  half-sister.  Lady  Macdonald 
was  generous  as  well  as  just ;  and  when  people  do  a 
kindness,  it  is  strange  indeed  if  they  must  not  do  it  in 
their  own  way.  And  yet  the  heart  may  rebel  at  what 
the  reason  approves ! 

Old  enough  to  be  their  mother,  she  took  at  once  the 
tone  of  authority  as  well  as  of  protection ;  but  never 
knew  how  hard  to  their  young  natures  was  the  disci- 
pline she  enforced.  Idolized  by  their  parents,  caressed, 
indulged  by  them  almost  to  folly,  they  had  been  what 
are  called  spoiled  children  ;  but  I  believe  girls  will 
stand  a  very  great  deal  of  the  sort  of  spoiling  they  had 
experienced  without  much  detriment.  But  now,  and 
even  in  the  early  days  of  their  heart-sorrow,  were  to  be 
assumed  the  starched  manners,  and  endured  the  hard 
study  beneath  a  rigid  governess  of  fifty,  whose  sensi- 
bility had  been  dried  up  by  the  chill  atmosphere  of  her 
profession,  which,  after  thirty  years,  had  left  her  the 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       89 

skilled  teacher  of  facts,  and  nothing  more.  Her  men- 
tal world  must  have  been  a  vast  tomb,  where  the  dry 
bones  of  knowledge  stalked  with  a  sort  of  galvanic  life. 
Cold  companion ;  stern  teacher  for  children  who  were 
growing  fast  into  true  women  ;  pining  for  tenderness, 
though  they  knew  not  how  to  name  their  want. 

Mary  at  seventeen  eloped  with  an  old  playmate, 
hardly  three  years  her  senior.  And,  through  long 
years  unforgiven,  was  looked  on  as  '  The  Black  Sheep 
of  the  Family.'  Hester,  not  without  a  history,  was,  in 
184-,  the  maiden  lady  of  a  certain  age. 

The  young  Sir  Andrew  was  married  at  twenty  to  a 
wife  of  his  mother's  choosing.  He  happened  to  like 
the  young  lady  very  well,  and  the  year  of  their  married 
life  was  a  peaceful  one.  She  died  in  presenting  him 
with  a  daughter ;  and  he  who,  notwithstanding  his 
pedigree,  was  but  a  common-place  specimen  of  the 
country  gentleman,  was  killed  at  three-and-twenty  by 
an  accident  while  deer-stalking. 

Again  was  Lady  Macdonald  left  the  guardian  of  a 
child  —  the  little  Agnes. 


CHAPTER  II. 


The  snow  lay  deep,  but  the  frost  bound  it  together, 
and  made  for  the  time  being  a  firm  pavement  of  its 
treacherous  masses.  A  little  more  wind,  and  the 
weather  would  have  been  Siberian ;  as  it  was,  the  air 
seemed  at  rest,  and  the  bare  boughs  were  motionless, 


90  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

save  when  a  famishing  bird  swayed  some  light  twig. 
The  day  was  light  for  Christmas-time  in  England, 
although  the  sun  had  not  once  peeped  from  its  whitish 
hood  of  clouds.     In  short,  it  was  a  true  winter's  day. 

Hester  Ford,  well  clad  in  velvet  and  fur,  was  evi- 
dently prepared  for  walking  or  riding,  yet  lingered, 
leaning  beside  the  tall  chimney-piece  in  the  chintz 
drawing-room,  as  if  she  had  still  something  to  say  to 
ber  sister.  A  large  Indian  screen  was  drawn  in  a 
semicircle  towards  the  fire,  and  seemed  to  portion  off 
a  lesser  chamber  within  the  room.  Lady  Macdonald, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire,  was  plying  her  needle 
- — thanks  to  her  spectacles  —  making  up  coarse  flan- 
nel for  poor  people.  Her  words,  fortunately,  led  to  the 
topic  which  her  companion  at  once  hesitated,  yet 
longed,  to  approach. 

'  My  dear,'  she  exclaimed  good-humoredly,  '  you 
urere  very  idle  yesterday,  and  now  you  are  leaving  me 
your  share  of  hemming  and  sewing  to  complete.' 

Wlien  in  her  most  affable  mood,  lady  Macdonald 
always  called  her  younger  sister  '  my  dear.' 

'  I  plead  guilty,'  replied  Hester, '  but,  sister,  some 
other  time  I  will  make  up  for  my  negligence,  and  work 
most  diligently  for  you.  To-day  —  O  Margaret !  let 
me  tell  you  something  that  has  happened.' 

A  shade  of  displeasure  passed  over  the  elder  lady's 
countenance,  and  she  replied  in  an  altered  tone,  yet 
without  looking  up  from  her  employment  — '  There  is 
but  one  subject,  I  believe,  between  us,  which  ever 
aeeds  a  croaking  note  of  preparation  ;  and  I  have 
observed  you  are  fond  of  introducing  it  at  Christmas 
time.' 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       91 

'  It  is  true  ;  because  the  season,  with  all  its  joy  and 
holiness,  is  a  sad  anniversary  ;  because  it  vividly 
recalls  the  fault  of  an  inexperienced  girl,  and  because 
the  outcast  herself  has  more  than  once  chosen  it  for 
her  vain  attempts  at  reconciliation.' 

'  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  are  in  corres- 
pondence with  your  sister,'  returned  Lady  Macdonald, 
still  stitching  on  in  her  orderly  manner;  '  you  know 
that  my  wish  is  never  to  hear  her  name ;  but  if  a 
stranger  sent  me  a  message,  I  must  listen  to  it.  Does 
she  want  money  ? '  and  as  she  spoke  she  glanced  at  a 
cheque-book,  which  chanced  to  lie  open  on  the  table. 

*-  No  :  —  the  early  trials,  the  bitter  sorrows  of  that 
worst  poverty,  the  poverty  of  the  well-born  and  well- 
bred,  are  over ;  her  husband's  talents  appear  to  be 
duly  recognised  ;  fame  brings  gold  in  its  train,  and 
poor  Mary  feels  that  only  your  forgiveness  is  necessary 
to  herhappiness.' 

'  She  must  have  learned  by  this  time  to  do  very  well 
without  it ;  and  the  triumph  of  her  present  prosperity 
cannot  incline  her  very  much  to  repentance.' 

'  It  may  be,  sister,  that  she  looks  upon  her  sorrows 
and  disappointments  —  and  they  have  been  many  — 
as  sufficient  punishment  for  her  error ;  but  it  is  since 
she  has  seen  her  own  daughters  growing  towards 
womanhood,  that  she  has  fully  recognised  the  wrong 
she  did  you,  has  thoroughly  comprehended  your  gen- 
erosity, and  the  earnest  manner  in  which  you  strove  to 
perform  a  mother's  part  to  both  of  us,' 

'  I  endeavored  to  do  what  I  thought  right,  but  I  have 
never  attached  any  particular  merit  to  the  performance 
of  a  duty.' 


92  ENGLISH   TALES    ANU    SKETCHES. 

'  I  know  that  full  well.  Yet,  Margaret,  if  you  could 
make  allowances  for  weaker  natures  than  your  own  — 
for  temptation  —  youth.  Poor  Mary !  it  is  only  recon- 
ciliation that  she  asks  —  if ' 

'  I  cannot,'  said  Lady  Macdonald,not  quite  unmoved, 
though  she  spoke  without  resting  from  her  work.  '  Yet 
do  not  fancy  that  I  am  dragging  the  burthen  of  an  ani- 
mosity with  me  towards  the  grave.  I  would  not  injure 
her,  and  perhaps,  under  other  circumstances,  it  might 
have  been  different.  I  cannot  tell  —  but  I  could  not  look 
little  Agnes  in  the  face  if  I  had  forgiven  my  sister  her 
fault.  I  wonder  at  you,  Hester,  interceding  —  you  who, 
in  the  hour  of  your  girlish  temptation,  behaved  so  differ- 
ently.' 

'  Life  is  a  strange  riddle,'  said  Hester  with  evident 
bitterness,  the  tears  standing  in  her  still  fine  eyes.  '  I 
sometimes  think  that  none  of  us  are  born  to  happiness  or 
content.  If  I  tell  you  what  I  never  yet  have  owned  — 
if  I  aver  that  with  all  your  generosity,  the  ease,  luxury, 
affluence  I  have  enjoyed,  there  have  been  hours  when 
I  have  repented  of  that  which  you  esteem  my  chief 
merit  —  when  I  would  have  given  every  joy  on  earth 
to  recall  the  true  heart  I  banished  — if ' 

'Hush  —  hush!'  said  Lady  Macdonald,  dropping 
her  work,  at  last,  and  pressing  her  hands  to  her  ears 
as  if  to  crush  out  the  sound,  '  let  me  not  hear  such 
words.' 

'  Forgive — forget  —  them  ! '  exclaimed  Hester,  with 
quick  remorse  ;  '  they  were  words  of  folly  and  insanity, 
wrung  from  my  distress.  My  heart  aches  for  poor 
Mary's  disappoinlment,  and  again  must  I  be  the  in- 
strument of  it' 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       93 

*  You  are  writing  to  your  sister,  then,  I  presume  ? ' 

*  I  am  going  to  see  her,  Margaret  —  to  meet  her  by 
appointment  at  D .  She  tells  me  she  has  some- 
thing urgent  to  communicate,  but  to  relieve  any  anxiety 
such  words  might  occasion,  she  hints  that  she  has  no 
new  or  personal  distress  to  relate  ;  and  that,  on  the 
contrary,  her  husband  is  prospering  at  last  beyond  their 
highest  ambition.  Possibly  you  saw  his  knighthood 
mentioned  in  the  newspapers  ? '  added  Hester,  with 
some  hesitation. 

'  I  did.  A  painter  of  pictures  knighted  ! '  And  Lady 
Macdonald  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  contemptuous 
pity  for  the  degeneracy  of  the  age  ;  after  a  moment 

she  continued,  'When  are  you  going?  D is  six 

miles  distant  —  have  you  ordered  the  carriage  ? ' 

'  I  have  —  and  I  have  not.  I  begged  that  the  horses 
might  be  put  to,  but  not  brought  round  without  further 
orders.' 

'  Why  was  this,  Hester  ?  You  ought  to  know  that  I 
am  always  best  pleased  when  I  see  that  you  act  with- 
out control.  You  know  that  you  are  always  mistress 
of  one  carriage  ;  this  was  part  of  my  bond  when  you 
gave  up  Mr.  Gerald  Wentmore,  and  1  always  wish  to 
pay  my  debts.' 

'  Yet,'  said  Hester,  '  I  could  not  take  your  carriage 
on  such  a  mission  without  your  sanction.     If ' 

'  Go,  go  —  I  wish  to  avoid  scenes  ! '  and  Lady  Mac- 
donald rang  the  bell  as  she  spoke. 

In  the  momentary  silence  which  ensued,  the  door 
behind  the  screen  certainly  opened  and  closed ;  then 
opened  again,  so  that  it  was  another  minute  before  the 
servant  appeared. 


94  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

'  The  carriage  for  Miss  Ford,  directly,'  said  Lady 
Macdonald,  in  her  stateliest  tone. 

'  Margaret ! '  sobbed  Hester,  stretching  out  both  her 
hands,  and  taking  one  of  her  sister's  between  her  own, 
where  passively  it  rested  — '  Margaret,  kiss  me  before 
I  go ;  I  love  you  better  —  I  am  more  grateful  than  you 
think.' 

Lady  Macdonald  stooped  her  tall  figure  to  kiss  her 
sister's  cheek,  and  something  like  a  vital  movement 
crept  through  the  passive  hand,  and  responded  to 
Margaret's  pressure. 


CHAPTER  III. 

If  not  precisely  the  '  hest  inn's  best  room,'  it  was,  at 
all  events,  a  comfortable  apartment  in  which  the  long 
separated  sisters  met  —  making  allowance,  of  course, 
for  that  certain  baldness  and  bareness,  and  unhorae 
look,  from  which  we  doubt  much  if  there  is  an  hotel  in 
Europe  that  is  thoroughly  free.  Perhaps  a  long  resi- 
dence in  one  may  warm  and  shapen  the  place  into  a 
home  fashion  ;  but  generally  a  mental  shivering  fit  has 
to  be  encountered  at  the  threshold.  However,  Lady 
Shafton  —  lady  in  right  of  her  husband.  Sir  William's, 
knighthood  —  had  drawn  the  sofa  and  an  easy  chair 
near  the  blazing  fire,  had  spied  and  dragged  from  its 
dark  corner  a  faded  footstool,  had  arranged  the  blinds 
to  the  pleasantest  light,  and  had  ordered  a  delicate, 
well-chosen  luncheon  to  be  ready  at  the   appointed 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       95 

hour.  A  poet  is  said  to  be  '  born,'  not '  made,'  and  so, 
I  am  sure,  is  a  hostess,  who,  to  charm  by  her  spiriting, 
must  have  a  large  warm  heart,  a  ready  wit,  and  a 
thoughtful  and  thoroughly  unselfish  nature.  Lady 
Shafton  was  a  born  hostess.  In  her  husband's  strug- 
gling days,  she  had  made  the  home  of  poverty  gra- 
cious, and  frugal  fare  sometimes  a  banquet  to  their  few 
but  sincere  friends,  by  the  genial  welcome  she  so  nat- 
urally displayed  :  in  dawning  prosperity,  her  gift  had 
but  developed  with  opportunity  ;  and  now,  even  in  her 
hired  apartment,  it  was  her  nature  to  make  glad  pre- 
paration for  the  most  welcome  of  guests.  She  saw  the 
carriage  from  the  window,  and  recognised  her  sister's 
unchanged  liveries ;  but  the  wearers  were  strange  to 
her  —  Lady  Macdonald  not  being  remarkable  for 
keeping  her  servants  for  any  very  lengthened  term. 

Tearful  was  the  meeting,  and  for  a  time  nearly 
speechless.  The  self-appointed  hostess  drew  Hester 
to  the  easy  chair  —  she  loosened  her  bonnet,  she  drew 
off  her  mantle,  she  kissed  her  twenty  times,  and  then 
their  tears  dried  away  into  smiles  and  gladness  ;  and, 
after  a  little  while,  they  sat  hand  in  hand,  and  dis- 
coursed, without  ecstasies,  like  rational  creatures, 

Hester's  last  visit  to  her  sister  had  been,  years 
before,  in  obscure  London  lodgings ;  but  there  was 
something  that  legibly  enough  marked  the  difference 
between  the  then  and  now.  In  the  first  place,  Lady 
Shafton  was  much  better  dressed  than  Hester  had  ever 
seen  her;  and  dress  makes  rhore  difference  to  looks 
than  people  think  they  ought  to  allow,  —  very  espe- 
cially after  what  some  one  calls  '  the  sharp  corner  of 
thirty-five'  is  turned.     Then  she  was  a  little,  just  a 


96  ENGLISH  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

little,  stouter ;  and  that  fact  also  was  rather  an  advan- 
tage to  her  seconde  jeunesse.  Certain  lines  of  care, 
which  had  given  a  half-sad,  half-thoughtful  expression 
to  her  countenance,  seemed  almost  to  have  passed 
away,  and  the  fine  eye  —  with  the  Fords  a  family  fea- 
ture, and  which  lenient  time  generally  touches  the  last 
—  seemed  more  radiant  than  ever. 

*  How  good  of  you  to  come  here ! '  exclaimed  Hes- 
ter, after  half  an  hour's  chat  had  exhausted  the  imme- 
diate topic  of  Lady  Macdonald's  obduracy,  '  and  to 
come  alone  this  long  way,' 

'Nay,  Edward,  your  godson,   is   my  escort.     He 

could  not  come  to  D without  seeing  the  Cathedral, 

but  he  will  be  back  to  luncheon.  You  will  not  know 
him,  I  expect  —  five  feet  ten  and  a  half,  and  barely 
nineteen :  quite  manly  enough  to  take  care  of  his  little 
mama,  as  he  very  impertinently  calls  me.' 

'  How  happy  your  children  must  be ! '  mused  Hes- 
ter, with  a  smile,  and  her  musing,  after  a  moment,  was 
spoken. 

'  I  hope  they  are.  People  tell  me  they  are  spoilt, 
and  I  know  what  is  meant  by  that  misapplied  word  ; 
but  I  call  children  more  "  spoilt "  when  they  are  made 
false  and  frightened  by  severity,  than  ever  they  were 
by  kindness.  However,  this  reminds  me  that  I  want 
to  catechise  you,  before  Edward  returns,  and  before  I 
tell  you  what  circumstances  induced  me  to  journey 
seventy  miles  this  mid-winter  weather,  besides  the 
pleasure  and  delight  of  meeting  you.' 

'  Catechise  me  ?  '  asked  Hester,  with  evident  sur- 
prise. 

'  Yes,  concerning  our  sister's  grand-daughter,  our 


THE    BLACK    SHEEP    OF    THE    FAMILY.  97 

grand-niece,  Agnes  Macdonald,  or  rather  of  one  who 
is  about  her;  —  tell  me  of  her  governess,  what  is  she 
like  ? ' 

'Like! — like  no  one  I  could  name.  But  she  is  a 
clever,  accomplished  woman  ;  a  German  by  birth,  she 
says,  though  I  sometimes  doubt  it,  speaking  three  or 
four  languages,  and  although,  to  own  the  truth,  she  and 
I  have  never  been  great  friends,  she  has  always  kept 
herself  in  high  favor  with  Margaret.' 

'  How,  and  why,  do  you  think  ?  ' 

'  I  hardly  like  to  say  it — yet  I  fear  partly  by  a  sys- 
tem of  the  most  delicate  and  adroit  flattery,  that  never 
betrays  itself  into  coarse  and  palpable  adulation  ;  and 
partly  because  Margaret  thinks  it  so  great  a  privilege 
to  have  a  lady  of  ancient  lineage  about  Agnes.' 

'  What  does  she  call  herself?  ' 

'  The  Baroness  Von  Bernheim,  belonging  to  the 
family  of  Hesse  something,  and  who,  for  a  salary  of 
two  hundred  a  year,  and  "  high  consideration,"  con- 
descends to  her  situation.  Her  father,  who  had  a 
string  of  titles,  was  colonel,  she  says,  among  the 
Black  Brunswickers  at  Waterloo,  and  you  know  that 
enmity  to  Napoleon  is  always  a  key  to  Margaret's 
sympathies.' 

Lady  Shafton  nodded  her  head  twice  or  thrice  with 
a  grave  smile,  as  if  confirmed  in  her  opinion,  whatever 
that  might  be  ;  and  drawing  a  memorandum-book  from 
her  pocket,  she  referred  to  it,  continuing,  —  'Now  tell 
me  her  probable  age  and  personal  appearance.' 

'  She  does  not  look  above  thirty,  but  if  her  father 
fell  at  Waterloo,  she  must  be  considerably  mt)re.  She 
is  of  the  medium  height,  tolerably  well  looking,  yet 
7 


98  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

rather  plebeian,  nevertheless,  if  one  dare  say  it  of  so 
grand  a  lady.' 

'  It  is  generally  a  powerful  motive  which  induces  a 
woman  to  add  half  a  dozen  years  to  her  apparent  age,' 
said  Lady  Shafton. 

'  My  dearest  Mary,  what  can  you  mean  ? ' 

'  That  my  notes  say  —  aged  twenty-nine.' 

'  You  terrify  me,  dear  Mary,  and  fill  my  mind  with 
vague  suspicions ! ' 

'  One  more  question.  Has  she  white,  well-shaped 
hands,  or  anything  remarkable  about  them  ?  ' 

'  Certainly  a  coarse  hand  ;  besides,  she  has  partly 
lost  the  use  of  her  left  hand,  from  an  accident  when  a 
child,  which  prevents  her  playing  on  any  instrument, 
although  she  professes  to  understand  music  and  teach 
it.' 

'  Conclusive,'  exclaimed  Lady  Shafton,  putting  the 
note-book  into  her  sister's  hand.  '  The  description, 
though  gathered  piecemeal,  is  sufficiently  authentic. 
Her  hand  was  disabled  a  few  years  ago  by  a  stab  re- 
ceived in  a  quarrel  and  scuffle  among  her  confederates, 
swindlers  and  gamblers.  She  is  an  arch-impostor,  no 
more  a  Baroness  than  you  or  I ;  clever  she  may  be, 
though  hardly  accomplished,  for  she  passed  some  years 
of  her  life  as  waiting-maid,  travelling  with  her  mis- 
tress, and  so,  perhaps,  improved  her  knowledge  of 
languages.  How  could  Margaret  have  been  the  dupe 
of  such  a  person  ? ' 

'  Easily,'  replied  Hester,  *  for  I  never  suspected 
such  a  revelation  as  this.  And  I  do  visit  occasionally 
—  do  correspond  with  a  few  friends  —  do  know  some- 
thing of  the  world  beyond  the  gates  of  Lauder  House. 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       99 

Not  SO  Lady  Macdonald,  who  lives  only  in  the  mem- 
ory of  her  own  past  life,  and  in  the  future  of  her 
darling  Agnes.  She  may  readily  have  been  imposed 
on  by  forged  credentials.' 

'  Tell  me  what  sort  of  a  girl  is  Agnes  ?  ' 
'  Affectionate  and  tender-hearted,  and,  I  fear,  even 
more  impulsive  than  we  were  in  our  girlish  days, 
though  awed  into  seeming  coldness  and  apathy  in  her 
grandmother's  presence.  With  excellent  abilities,  and 
a  very  fair  share  of  beauty,  she  ought  to  realize  all 
Margaret's  hopes.  But  there  is  something  dreadful  in 
this  woman  having  been  her  teacher  —  her  associate 
for  six  months  ;  and  she  is  so  attached  to  "  her  dear 
baroness,"  her  "  darling  governess,"  as  I  hear  her 
called  sometimes.  But,  Mary,  how  came  you  to  know 
such  a  history  ?  ' 

'  Briefly,  thus  :  —  Painters  have  strange  experiences. 
A  splendidly  handsome,  but  most  worthless  young  man 
has  sat  as  model  to  my  husband  for  more  than  one  of 
his  pictures.  Willy  wanted  him  again  latterly,  made 
inquiries  at  his  residence,  found  a  substitute  in  one  of 
his  some  time  associates,  who,  in  pique  at  fancied  neg- 
lect, babbled  about  him  and  his  concerns,  mentioning 
his  sister,  who  was  governess  to  a  youthful  heiress,  and 
who  had  gained  such  influence  with  the  grandmother, 
that  she  ruled  the  family,  even  hinting  that  there  were 
plots  weaving  for  him  to  marry  the  pupil.  This  idea 
is  of  course,  too  ridiculous  ;  but  there  were  so  many 
circumstances  that  coincided  with  those  of  Margaret 
and  her  grand-daughter,  that  I  decided  on  seeing  you 
without  delay.  Our  sister  may  never  relent,  and  for- 
give my  early  fault ;  but  it  will  ever  be  to  me  a  sweet 


too  ENGLISH    TALES    AND   SKETCHES. 

consolation  to  have  done  her  this  service.'  As  Lady 
Shafton  spoke,  her  voice  trembled  with  emotion,  but 
she  proceeded  :  'If,  Hester,  it  will  be  painful  to  her  to 
be  obliged  by  me,  spare  her  the  humiliation  ;  only  give 
her  notice  of  the  impostor.  Let  her  question  this 
worthless  woman,  and  dismiss  her.  I  have  two  dear 
daughters  of  my  own,  and  I  could  not  rest  with  the 
thought  of  the  poor  orphaned,  though  to  me  unknown, 
Agnes,  being  exposed  to  a  vile  woman's  machinations. 
But  here  comes  Edward,'  she  continued,  struggling 
with  her  feelings  ;  '  though  I  wished  to  discuss  this  sub- 
ject with  you  alone,  he  is  quite  cognizant  of  it.' 

Edward  Shafton  had  been  the  last  twelve  months  at 
one  of  the  Universities,  or  probably  his  father  would 
not  have  sought  beyond  his  own  roof  for  a  youthful 
model.  Tall  and  finely  formed,  graceful  with  a  natu- 
ral grace,  improved  by  good  breeding,  but  which  is  in 
itself  an  expression  of  the  mind  ;  with  deep  blue  eyes, 
that  half  his  friends  thought  black  ;  rich,  soft,  dark 
hair,  and  what  one  instinctively  calls  '  patrician '  fea- 
tures, he  was  really  more  of  a  pattern  hero  than  I  like 
by  choice  to  portray. 

'  And  this  is  Aunt  Hester  ! '  said  he,  in  a  rich,  full 
voice,  that  had  frankness  and  feeling  in  every  tone ; 
and  loosening  his  great  coat,  and  throwing  down  his  hat 
and  stick  as  he  spoke, '  Oh,  how  little  changed  since  I 
sat  on  your  knee,  while  you  told  me  stories  !  Won't 
you  give  me  as  hearty  kisses  now  as  you  did  years 
ago  ?  '  he  continued,  smiling  and  stooping  to  salute 
her;  and  then,  as  both  ladies  were  standing  on  the 
hearth-rug,  he  very  quietly  passed  an  arm  round  the 
waist  of  each  with  a  gesture  that  had  something  of 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      101 

protection  amid  its  boyish  wilfulness.  And  thus  they 
chatted  for  a  full  ten  minutes  about  the  beauties  of  the 
Cathedral,  and  the  false  Baroness,  and  on  some  other 
topics,  till  the  luncheon-dinner  was  served,  Edward 
saying,  incidentally,  '  Mamma,  dear,  the  express  train 
we  must  go  by  leaves  at  six  o'clock.' 

'  Hester,  you  will  stay  with  us  till  the  last,'  exclaimed 
Lady  Shafton  entreatingly. 

'  Oh,  certainly.'     And  so  she  did. 

When  Hester  Ford  returned  to  Lauder  House,  she 
saw  the  women-servants  in  tears,  the  men  in  strange 
confusion ;  and  making  her  way  to  her  sister's  side, 
with  wild,  blind  fear,  found  lady  Macdonald  in  a  stony 
agony. 

There  stood  the  matron  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
with  her  cap  fallen  off,  and  her  long  grey  hair  stream- 
ing over  her  shoulders.  Her  eyes  seemed  glazed  ; 
her  face  was  ashy  pale;  her  lips  moved,  but  uttered 
no  sound  ;  and  when  Hester  rushed  to  her  side,  a 
gurgling  noise  alone  betrayed  her  effort  to  speak,  as 
she  pointed  with  a  stiffened  finger  to  an  open  letter  on 
the  ground. 

The  writing  was  in  the  girlish  hand  of  Agnes,  and 
announced  that  she  had  fled. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


Notwithstanding  the  general  good  management 
of  our  railways,  there  is  always  more  or  less  helter- 
skelter  when  one  starts  from  a  station  instead  of  a  ter- 


am 


ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 


minus.  It  is  no  use  being  told,  as  the  train  approaches, 
^hat  there  is  no  hurry  :  the  engine  puffing  off  its  steam 
when  it  stops  as  if  every  moment's  delay  were  positive 
torture  to  its  iron  frame,  says  obstinately  the  contrary ; 
and  right  few  passengers  are  lethargic  enough  to  take 
their  seats  in  a  perfectly  calm  and  leisurely  manner. 
Lady  Shafton  and  her  son,  however,  being  free  from 
the  traveller's  trouble,  luggage,  were  a  little  less 
hurried  than  the   general  throng  which   crowded  the 

platform  at  D ,  and  took   time  to  peep   into  two 

or  three  carriages  before  they  made  their  selection. 
The  one  into  which  at  last  they  stepped,  would  have 
been  wholly  unoccupied,  save  that  a  heap  of  travelling 
apparel,  surmounted  by  a  travelling  cap,  was  cosily 
gathered  in  one  of  the  corner  seats,  and  suggested  that 
probably  a  human  being  was  entombed  beneath  that 
mountain  of  broadcloth.  Hardly  were  they  seated, 
when  the  remaining  vacant  places  were  appropriated 
by  two  ladies  an'd  a  young  man. 

Off  dashed  the  train,  and  soon  away  from  the  glare 
of  the  station's  gas-lights,  the  twinkle  of  the  little  lamp 
in  the  roof  of  the  carriage  was  duly  estimated.  Lady 
Shafton  soon  perceived  that  the  good-natured  face  of  a 
man  about  forty  years  of  age  peered  from  beneath  the 
travelling  cap  ;  but  when  she  turned  to  the  new  comers, 
she  remarked  that  the  younger  lady,  who  was  evidently 
an  object  of  great  solicitude  to  her  companions,  kept 
her  veil  down,  although  its  folds  were  not  thick  enough 
to  conceal  that  she  was  stirred  by  some  strong  emotion. 
More  than  once  her  handkerchief  was  raised  to  her 
eyes,  and  Lady  Shafton  felt  certain  that  she  was 
weeping. 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       103 

Nor  was  Edward  Shafton  unobservant  of  their  com- 
panions :  a  truth  which  his  mother,  whose  sympathy- 
found  a  meaning  in  his  every  glance  and  movement, 
very  soon  perceived.  Presently  he  took  a  card  from 
his  pocket,  and  writing  a  few  words  thereon  with  a 
pencil,  handed  it  to  her.     She  read  as  follows : — 

'  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  him.  Surely  you 
recognise  my  father's  "  Craven  Knight"  and  "  Lucifer 
expelled."  But  who  are  ^/te?/ ?  Observe  what  double 
duty  my  neighbor  makes  her  right  hand  do.  And  who 
can  the  young  lady  be,  if  not  my  cousin  Agnes  ?  Be 
calm,  dearest  little  mamma,  whatever  you  may  suspect 
or  we  discover.  He  does  not  remember  me  the  least, 
I  am  sure,  and  very  likely  he  never  saw  you.' 

There  was  a  long  look  exchanged  between  mother 
and  son,  a  look  which  was  hardly  less  expressive  to 
each  other  than  words  might  have  been ;  though  none 
of  their  companions  at  all  divined  the  tremor,  the 
icy  chill,  and  the  fever  flush  which  passed  alternately 
through  Lady  Shafton's  frame,  before  she  was  able  to 
recover  her  firmness  and  presence  of  mind.  Yet  a 
world  of  counsel,  comfort,  help,  protection  came  to 
her  on  the  wings  of  those  three  words,  '  dearest  little 
mamma  ! '  What  need  she  fear,  what  could  she  not 
dare,  with  her  brave  boy  beside  her  } 

At  the  first  plausible  opportunity  Lady  Shafton 
offered  her  vinaigrette  to  the  young  lady,  a  civility 
which  was  accepted,  and  led  the  way  —  one  personage 
of  the  party  being  so  very  ready  —  to  general  con- 
versation. 

It  has  often  been  remarked  that  rogues,  in  the  exer- 
cise of  their  vocation,  generally  exhibit  more  ingenuity. 


VH.  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

and  perform  more  arduous  tasks,  tlian  might  have  been 
necessary  in  pursuing  a  straight-forward,  honest  ca- 
reer; in  like  manner  the  falsehoods  and  subterfuges  of 
two  of  the  travellers  exhibited  more  invention  in  half 
an  hour,  than  good  quiet  people  might  have  needed  in 
a  lifetime.  The  pretended  Baroness  —  for  it  is  best 
at  once  to  acknowledge  that  Lady  Shafton's  and  her 
son's  suspicions  were  correct  —  related  how  her  young 
friend  was  in  great  distress  of  mind,  being  sent  for  to 
the  death-bed  of  a  near  and  dear  relative  ;  while  the 
handsome,  mustachioed,  but  not  quite  gentlemanly- 
looking  young  man,  echoed  her  words,  and  added 
some  insufferable  slip-slop  compliment  about  their 
young  companion's  tender  heart  and  feeling  nature. 

It  was  at  this  moment  the  young  girl  raised  her  veil, 
perhaps  inadvertently,  perhaps  because  some  spring  of 
her  nature  compelled  her  to  face,  not  cower  beneath, 
the  hail  of  falsehood  that  was  showered  around  her. 
Lady  Shafton  saw  and  recognised  the  '  Ford  eye,'  as  it 
flashed  from  the  pale,  suffering  face  of  Agnes  Mac- 
donald,  as  if  in  resentment  of  her  own  weakness,  that 
had  brought  upon  her  these  insults  ;  but  Lady  Shafton 
had  too  much  at  stake  to  be  hasty  or  premature  in  the 
eclair  cissement. 

'  Such  journeys,'  she  observed,  as  if  in  credence 
of  the  woman's  words,  '  leave  an  indelible  impression 
on  the  mind.  Strange  to  say,  this  road  is  full  of 
distressing  associations  to  myself;  for  though  the  cir- 
cumstances which  occasioned  them  occurred  before 
the  railroad  was  formed,  the  name  of  more  than  one 
station  to-night  has  brought  back  a  host  of  recollec- 
tions.' 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       105 

The  'Baroness,'  who  no  doubt  expected  a  story 
savoring  of  funeral  plumes  and  a  death-bed  summons, 
expressed  herself  anxious  on  the  subject,  and  Lady 
Shafton  continued  :  — 

'  Twenty  years  ago,  a  young  girl,  hardly  older,  I 
should  think,  than  this  young  lady,  fled  from  the  neigh- 
borhood of  D ;   fled    from  her  home,  from   the 

protection  of  her  nearest  relative,  to  wed  without  the 
consent  of  one  to  whom  she  owed  duty  and  gratitude.' 

'  And  perhaps  the  marriage  turned  out  very  happily,' 
answered  the  other  in  a  quick  tone.  '  Only  to-day  I 
heard  an  old  maid  regretting  that  she  had  not  run  ofT 
with  her  lover.' 

'  The  marriage  to  which  I  allude,'  continued  Lady 
Shafton, '  cannot  be  said  to  have  turned  out  ill,  because 
the  one  fault  of  a  life  is  something  different  from  gen- 
eral depravity,  and  because  the  young  lover  was  the 
soul  of  truth  and  honor,  and  because  the  love  of  both 
was  genuine,  young  heart-love  ;  and  yet  I  know  that 
the  long  trials  of  poverty  and  disappointed  ambition 
perilled  this  love,  jeopardized  it  from  time  to  time  to 
the  very  brink  of  extinction,  as  a  lamp  dwindles  for 
need  of  oil.  Even  in  their  latter  happier  days, 
when  love  has  burned  brightly,  there  has  ever  sat  a 
weight  of  remorse  at  that  girl's  heart  ;  —  remorse  for 
kindness  and  protection  ill  requited,  —  remorse  for  her 
unmaidenly  act,  —  remorse  that  sometimes  took  a 
phantom  shape,  and  seemed  to  stand  before  her  young 
daughters,  and  tell  her  she  could  be  no  guide  and 
teacher  to  them.  1  knew  that  girl  —  I  knew  that  wife 
intimately  ;  her  flight  took  place  in  the  Christmas 
week.  You  cannot  wonder  that  the  season  and  the 
place  recalled  it.' 


106  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

The  gentleman  in  the  travelling  cap  had  roused  him- 
self to  listen  to  this  story ;  but  they  to  whom  it  was 
addressed  would  have  interrupted  it,  had  they  known 
how,  without  betraying  themselves.  At  last  the 
*  Baroness'  observed,  '  Poverty  is  a  sad  thing  under 
any  circumstances ;  and  perhaps  if  your  friend  had 
inherited  a  fortune,  her  troubles  would  have  been 
fewer.' 

'  Nay,  in  one  sense,  her  want  of  fortune  was  a  bless- 
ing. It  convinced  her,  at  least,  that  her  lover's  vows 
were  sincere,  that  it  was  herself  he  loved.  Now,  I 
hold  that  an  heiress,  if  endowed  with  common  sense, 
must  distrust  any  lover  who  would  urge  her  to  a  clan- 
destine step,  even  to  the  secret  encouragement  of  his 
addresses  or  an  implied  engagement.' 

It  was  clear  that  the '  Baroness'  had  not  bettered  her 
position,  especially  as  poor-Agnes  shook  with  emotion, 
and  the  vinaigrette  was  again  in  request.  The  two 
confederates  spoke  curtly  and  quickly  a  few  words  in 
what  seemed  a  patois  of  French ;  and  Lady  Shafton 
gathered  that  they  were  debating  if  they  should  quit 
the  carriage  at  the  next  opportunity ;  but  finally,  as 
they  would  reach  London  now  in  half  an  hour,  it  was 
agreed  they  should  go  on. 

The  last  station  passed,  the  last  pause  before  the 
final  one,  and  the  train  was  again  in  rapid  motion.  The 
time  for  action  was  come,  and,  with  a  heart  beating  so 
fast  and  thick,  she  seemed  to  hear  it.  Lady  Shafton 
turned  to  the  silent  gentleman  in  the  corner  and  spoke 
thus : — 

'  If,  Sir,  you  are  made  witness  to  a  painful  scene, 
pardon  me ;    but,  I  implore  you,  stand  by  the  right.' 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      107 

Then,  turning  quickly  to  the  half-fainting  girl,  she 
passed  an  arm  round  her  waist,  and  speaking  rapidly, 
said  : 

'Agnes  Macdonald — dear  girl,  poor  victim,  be 
saved  while  you  may.  I  am  your  aunt  Mary  —  let 
me  prove  my  identity  —  see  the  ring  my  sister  Hester 
has  worn  for  years  ;  you  must  know  it :  we  exchanged 
rings  to-day  —  and  here  is  a  letter  in  her  hand-writing, 
received  by  me  yesterday.  Let  me  rescue  you  from 
these  dreadful  people,  who  are  plotting  your  destruc- 
tion. Nay,  touch  her  not,'  —  for  the  woman  had 
seized  her  by  the  arm,  and,  in  what  very  nearly 
approached  a  scuffle,  had  revealed  the  hideously 
maimed  hand,  —  'touch  her  not.  I  know  your  his- 
tory—  even  to  the  history  of  that  hand.  Be  prudent, 
or  I  give  you  into  the  charge  of  the  police.' 

The  pretended  '  Baroness'  quailed  for  a  moment ; 
but  she  was  too  perfect  in  her  part  to  be  even  now 
wholly  at  fault ;  and  so  she  poured  forth  a  string  of 
invectives  on  Lady  Shafton,  and  of  appeals  to  Agnes. 
Meanwhile  the  brother  seized  the  hand  of  their  dupe, 
and  trying  daringly  to  draw  her  towards  him,  uttered 
protestations  that  it  would  seem  a  pollution  of  love  and 
truth  to  repeat.  This  was  beyond  the  endurance  of 
Edward,  who,  naturally  athletic,  seemed,  from  the 
excitement  of  the  moment,  to  have  acquired  additional 
strength  so  that  he  untwisted  the  fingers  which  had 
clasped  the  girl's  wrist  as  if  they  belonged  to  a  child, 
instead  of  to  a  man  of  five-and-twenty.  The  baffled 
fortune-hunter  was  in  truth  quite  discomfited  ;  for  his 
sister  —  probably  disapproving  of  his  harangue — tried 
to  stop  it  more  than  once  with  a  sharp  Hais-toi.'' 


mi  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

What  wells  of  shame,  remorse,  humbled  pride,  and 
wounded  affection  were  opened  in  the  heart  of  poor 
Agnes,  no  tongue,  no  pen  can  tell  ;  but  once,  when, 
amid  tears  and  sobs,  she  hesitated  between  the  new 
true  friend  and  the  false  but  fondly  loved  teacher,  a 
light  broke  upon  her  mind,  which  showed  at  least  one 
proved  deception. 

'  Oh,  Baroness  ! '  she  exclaimed,  with  bitter  emo- 
tion, '  now  that  you  are  angry,  how  well  you  speak 
English  !  ' 

For  the  first  time  during  the  whole  scene,  the 
wretched  woman  blushed,  while  she  bit  her  lip  till  the 
blood  almost  started. 

Hitherto  the  gentleman  in  the  corner  had  been  a 
silent,  though  not  unmoved  listener  ;  now  his  voice  was 
heard  — 

'  It  is  a  singular,  a  most  remarkable  coincidence,' 
he  observed,  '  but  I  happen  to  have  some  knowledge 
of  this  lady's  family,  and  shall  certainly  consider  my- 
self justified  in  assisting  her  to  rescue  her  niece  from 
the  control  of  strangers.  I  recommend  you,'  he  con- 
tinued, addressing  the  guilty  pair,  '  to  give  up  the 
young  lady  quietly.  I  have  heard  quite  enough  to 
comprehend  your  aim  and  purpose,  and  can,  more- 
over, perceive  that  your  youthful  victim  is  at  length 
herself  undeceived.  Be  advised,  and  so  avoid  worse 
consequences.' 

Meanwhile  Agnes  leaned  back  with  closed  eyes, 
and  apparently  half  fainting.  Lady  Shafton  whispered 
in  her  ear,  '  You  will  go  with  me  ; '  and  the  response 
was  a  barely  audible  '  Yes.' 

But  the  pretended  Baroness  heard  it,  and,  desperate 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      109 

with  rage  and  foiled  desires,  made  one  last  attempt  to 
recover  her  advantage.  Every  phrase  of  persuasion 
she  summoned  to  her  aid,  and,  among  other  remarks, 
again  alluded  to  Hester's  words. 

'  Remember  what  I  heard  your  aunt  say  only  this 
morning,  when  I  was  passing  through  the  drawing- 
room  —  that  she  repented  having  given  up  her  lover 
to  please  Lady  Macdonald  —  and  will  not  you  repent, 
too  ?  —  you  who  would  have  had  the  glory  of  raising  a 
noble ' 

'  False  —  false  —  false  ! '  exclaimed  Lady  Shafton, 
'  you  forget  that  we  know  you.' 

But  now  the  train  was  slackening  speed,  and  in 
another  minute  the  cry  of  '  Tickets  —  tickets  ! '  broke 
with  its  plain  reality  upon  the  excitement  of  the  scene. 
'You  had  better  go,'  said  the  stranger  gentleman, 
once  more  addressing  the  pair.  And,  with  a  fulsome 
attempt  at  leave-taking  of  Agnes,  they  were,  after  all, 
the  first  to  leave  the  train. 

'  Pardon  me,'  said  the  stranger,  addressing  Lady 
Shafton,  who  was  supporting  the  drooping  Agnes  as  a 
mother  would  a  suffering  child,  '  pardon  the  question, 
madam  ;  but  have  you  any  one  in  attendance  ? ' 

'  No  ;  but  we  shall  readily  procure  a  conveyance.' 

'  I  expect  my  carriage  to  be  waiting —  oblige  me  by 
using  it.  You  may  rely  on  my  servants  ;  whereas  a 
hired  driver  might  be  followed  and  questioned.' 

'  How  kind  !  how  thoughtful ! '  said  Lady  Shafton. 
'  Let  me  know  to  whom  we  are  indebted.' 

'  My  name  is .     I  will  give  you  my  card,  or  do 

myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  to  inquire  after  you 
in  a  day  or  two.     James,'  he  continued,  addressing 


110  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

his  coachman  in  a  low  voice  —  for  the  carriage  was 
quickly  found  — '  James,  I  shall  walk  home  ;  but  you 
will  drive  these  friends  of  mine  to  Harley  street,  and 
drive  fast.  Take  care  you  are  not  followed,  and 
answer  no  questions  that  may  be  asked  you.' 

Let  me  draw  a  veil  over  the  confession  of  poor 
Agnes,  as  she  sobbed  out  the  history  of  her  fault  to 
Lady  Shafton.  Almost  as  ignorant  of  the  world  as  a 
cloistered  nun  can  be,  and  yet  possessed  of  warm 
affections,  and  an  imaginative  romantic  nature,  the 
artful  governess  had  worked  on  this  temperament, 
partly  by  her  conversation,  and  partly  by  the  books 
she  had  placed  before  her.  She  had  painted  in  flaming 
colors  the  pleasures  of  society  and  of  the  gay  world  ; 
and  had  taken  every  occasion  of  contrasting  them 
with  the  dull  life  at  Lauder  House,  and  the  severe 
discipline  established  by  Lady  Macdonald.  Then, 
choosing  her  opportunity,  the  handsome  brother — no 
one  having  an  idea  of  the  relationship  —  had  been 
introduced,  with  Lady  Macdonald's  concurrence,  as  a 
teacher  of  the  guitar  ;  but  only  to  Agnes  was  it  told 
that  he  was  a  nobleman  in  disguise ;  who,  for  love  of 
her,  had  devised  this  subterfuge.  The  innocent  cre- 
dulity of  youth  never  doubted  ;  she  was  led  astray  by 
her  she  had  been  instructed  to  trust  and  obey ;  and, 
finally,  by  a  plot  within  a  plot,  she  was  induced  to 
write  —  merely  as  a  rough  copy,  she  was  told  —  a 
letter  to  Lady  Macdonald,  declaring  her  attachment 
and  intentions,  only  to  be  used  in  case  of  necessity. 
Then  came  the  artfully-planned,  but  seemingly  acci- 
dental, opportunity ;  and  the  moment  of  trust  so  cruelly 
betrayed  ! 


THE    BLACK    SHEEP    OF    THE    FAMILY.  Ill 


CHAPTER  V. 

We  left  Hester  Ford  in  the  first  moment  of  her 
astonishment  and  distress ;  and  it  was  long  before  she 
could  rouse  Lady  Macdonald  from  the  dull  agony  in 
which  she  found  her,  to  a  free  burst  of  tears.  Yet  it 
came  at  last,  and  brought  something  of  relief.  Never 
had  Hester  seen  her  haughty  sister  so  moved  ;  and 
perhaps,  in  her  heart,  she  had  not  believed  her  capa- 
ble of  such  suffering  as  she  witnessed.  The  flight  of 
Agnes  and  her  governess  had  only  just  been  discov- 
ered ;  no  steps  to  pursue  them  had  yet  been  taken ; 
and  it  was  clear  that  action  and  direction  remained  for 
Hester.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  proud,  self- 
sustained  Lady  Macdonald,  prostrated  by  her  anguish, 
appealed  and  yielded  to  her  younger  sister. 

No  doubt  Hester  felt  somewhat  calmer  and  more 
hopeful  than  she  might  otherwise  have  done,  from  hav- 
ing a  clue,  vague  as  it  was,  to  the  fugitives  ;  and  more- 
over, she  had  a  strange  dim  presentiment  that  her  sister 
Mary  would  prove  all-powerful  to  avert  the  dreaded 
calamity  of  a  disgraceful  marriage  —  that  event  which 
had  been  spoken  of  only  a  few  hours  before  as  '  too 
ridiculous.'  Her  first  thought  was  of  the  electric  tele- 
graph, but  her  watch  told  her  it  was  too  late  ;  she  had 

loitered,  at  D ,  making  some  purchases,  and  the 

express  train  would  be  due  in  London  before  a  mes- 
sage to  stop  the  fugitives  could  be  forwarded.  Finally, 
she  decided  on  sending  the  butler  —  a  trusty  servant  — 
by  special  train  to  London,  with  a  letter  to  Lady  Shaf- 
ton,  urging  her  to  track  the  poor  lost  child.     Messen- 


112  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

gers  were  sent  also  in  other  directions,  and  Lady 
Macdonald's  lawyer  summoned ;  and  now  the  night 
was  advancing. 

What  a  night  it  was !  Lady  Macdonald  refused  even 
to  seek  sleep,  and  alternately  paced  the  room,  wringing 
her  hands,  as  she  by  turns  reproached  Agnes  and 
blamed  herself;  or  fell,  exhausted  by  grief,  into  her 
chair.  All  Hester's  energies  were  taxed  in  her  office 
of  consoler,  or  she  might  have  wept  even  more  bitterly 
than  she  did  for  the  fate  and  conduct  of  her  young 
relative.  The  servants  had  been  ordered  to  rest,  all  but 
a  man  who  drowsed  by  the  hall  fire  ;  and  now  it  must 
have  been  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Everything 
was  still  out  of  doors  ;  though  once,  when  Hester 
opened  a  shutter  to  look  at  the  night,  she  saw  that 
fresh  snow  was  falling  in  large  feathery  flakes.  Sud- 
denly there  was  a  noise  of  wheels,  as  of  some  light 
conveyance,  so  near  that  the  lodge-gates  must  have 
been  passed,  and  in  another  minute  a  loud  peal  at  the 
bell. 

The  sleepy  servant  roused  himself  to  unbar  the  door, 
and  the  sisters  listened,  mute  and  almost  breathless. 

'  Let  me  see  Miss  Ford  instantly,'  said  the  stranger. 
*  I  am  the  bearer  of  good  news.'  And  Hester  recog- 
nised the  voice  of  Edward  Shafton  !  She  sprang  to  his 
side  ;  six  words  apprised  her  that  Agnes  was  saved  ; 
she  led  him  to  Lady  Macdonald  —  told  the  happy  truth 
in  broken  ejaculations  —  and  there,  with  the  snow- 
flakes  dripping  from  his  garments,  but  looking  unwea- 
ried by  travel,  the  spirit  of  the  glad  tidings  lighting  up 
his  handsome  countenance,  stood  the  son  of  the  despised 
sister,  for  the  first  time  beneath  that  roof. 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.       113 

He  told  his  story  simply  and  distinctly,  yet  without 
claiming  for  his  mother  the  merit  which  Lady  Mac- 
donald's  heart  loudly  proclaimed  was  her  due. 

'  Knowing  but  too  well,'  he  continued,  '  that  every 
hour's  delay  must  be  a  year  of  suffering  to  Lady  Mac- 
donald,  and  as  I  was  a  witness  to  the  whole  transac- 
tion, both  my  father  and  mother  at  once  decided  that  I 
should  bring  the  intelligence  by  a  special  train.  Be 
assured,  dear  madam,  that  your  grand-daughter  is  safe, 
save  that  her  young  heart  seems  almost  broken  by 
remorse  for  the  part  she  has  played.  But  my  mother 
and  sisters  are  the  fondest  of  nurses  —  if  I  could  only 
hope  to  mediate ' 

'  Yes,  yes,  she  must  come  back,'  interrupted  Lady 
Macdonald.  'I  will  be  gentle  with  her — tender.  I 
will  not  reproach.  Oh,  Agnes,  I  never  knew  till  now 
how  dear  you  were  ! '  And  again,  subdued  by  her 
feelings,  she  leaned  her  head  on  the  table,  and  wept 
bitterly. 

All  this  time  Edward  had  been  standing,  with  a  small 
table  and  two  wax  candles  —  which  feebly  lighted  the 
large  room  —  between  him  and  Lady  Macdonald  ;  but 
now  it  was  that  Hester  offered  to  take  his  hat  from  his 
hand,  and  motioned  him  to  be  seated.  Yet,  though  he 
acknowledged,  he  did  not  accept  the  courtesy.  Lady 
Macdonald  saw  the  gesture  of  each,  and  understood 
what  was  passing  in  their  minds. 

She  calmed  herself  for  a  moment,  rose  from  her  seat, 
and  laying  her  hand  on  Edward's  arm,  looked  at  him 
mournfully. 

'  Young  man,'  she  exclaimed, '  are  you  so  hard  upon 
me  ?  Can  you  only  think  of  my  past  unkindness,  and 
8 


U4 


ENGLISH    TALES    AND   SKETCHES. 


SO  deem  yourself  an  unwelcome  guest  ?  Do  you  not 
know  what  I  owe  your  mother  ?  —  ah,  your  face  is 
like  hers  —  and  I  feel  poor  Mary  will  forgive  me  yet. 
Everything  is  so  different  from  what  I  thought  —  you 
are  a  gentleman  —  I  could  have  been  proud  of  you  for 
"my  own  son.'  Her  voice  was  choked  with  fresh- 
coming  tears  —  her  frame  trembled  —  and  Edward,  in 
another  minute,  found  himself  supporting  the  haughty 
lady  who  had  been  to  him  for  years  the  imagined  type 
of  pride  and  coldness  —  found  himself  soothing  and 
solacing  her,  and  finally  seated  by  her  side,  his  hand 
clasped  in  hers.  That  gesture,  which  had  reminded 
her  that  he  felt  himself  the  son  of  the  outcast,  had 
probed  her  to  the  quick. 

Suddenly,  a  new  paroxysm  of  grief  seized  Lady 
Macdonald.  Hitherto,  her  absorbing  sorrow  had 
seemed  only  to  control  the  Present ;  now  she  per- 
ceived how  its  dark  shadow  stretched  far  into  the 
Future. 

'  My  poor  Agnes  ! '  she  exclaimed.  '  Lost,  unhappy 
thild  !  What  man  —  such  as  I  would  give  you  to  — 
will  now  take  you  for  his  wife,  with  the  dark  stain  of 
an  attempted  elopement  upon  you  ? ' 

'  Think  not  of  this,'  said  Hester  soothingly  ;  '  the 
most  tangled  threads  of  life  weave  themselves  free  at 
last.  Let  us  for  the  present  only  rejoice  that  the  poor 
child  has  escaped  from  the  worst  consequences  of  so 
deep  a  plot.' 

'  But  I  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  future,'  resumed 
Lady  Macdonald,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness,  and  with  in- 
creasing emphasis.  '  Since  my  son's  death,  the  one 
dream,  the  one  hope  of  my  life  has  been  to  see  Agnes 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      115 

suitably  wed  —  to  know  that  my  husband's  name  and 
honors  would  be  revered  by  his  descendants  —  to 
believe  that  our  line  would  yet  show  great  men  and 
virtuous  women; — and  now  —  oh,  may  God  forgive 
me  for  clinging  thus  to  the  creature  He  gave  me,  and 
to  the  hopes  of  this  world  ! '  And  again,  as  if  rent  by 
anguish,  she  sank  her  head  upon  her  hands. 

Edward  Shafton  was  deeply  moved.  Truly  the 
events  of  the  last  few  hours  had  taught  him  lessons  of 
life  which  he  might  have  been  long  in  learning,  and 
by  a  better  teaching,  than  men  —  licensed,  it  would 
seem,  rather  to  learn  evil  than  good  —  often  know. 
He  spoke  from  his  heart  when  he  said  — 

'  Think  not  men  are  so  hard  and  unforgiving.  I  can 
fancy  a  man  of  purest  life,  feeling  pity  and  sympathy 
for  such  a  fault,  committed  at  such  an  age.  Love,  too, 
is  ever  generous  and  self-devoting.  I  have  witnessed 
her  sufferings  —  I  am  certain  of  her  remorse  —  and  I 
have  seen  the  specious  wretches  who  betrayed  her, 
and  know  that  her  innocence  was  no  match  for  their 
villany.' 

'  You  —  you  —  but  no  other  man  in  the  world  ! ' 
exclaimed  Lady  Macdonald,  wringing  her  hands :  and 
still,  at  intervals,  she  repeated,  '  You  —  you  —  but  no 
other ! ' 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Thokotjgh  gossips  —  those   chattering  magpies  of 
society,  who  are  perpetually  talking  about  persons,  not 


11^ 


ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 


things  —  it  is  to  be  feared  abound  more  or  less  in  every 
circle ;  but,  perhaps,  it  is  part  of  the  beautiful  system 
of  compensation  which  prevails  in  the  world,  that  such 
people  are  never  content  with  the  morsel  of  truth  simply 
as  they  receive  it.  They  are  for  ever  adding  to,  and 
taking  from  a  fact ;  guessing  and  conjecturing ;  build- 
ing up  mighty  fabrics  on  false  foundations,  and  prop- 
ping these  falling  edifices  with  new  inventions,  until, 
in  the  hurly-burly,  the  original  particle  of  truth  often 
glides  out  of  sight.  Thus  was  it — and  in  many 
respects  most  fortunately  so  — with  the  saddest  episode 
in  the  life  of  Agnes. 

The  attempted  elopement  coinciding  with  the  recon- 
ciliation of  the  estranged  sisters,  the  evil  was  merged 
in  the  good  by  the  voice  of  rumor.  After  two  or  three 
preposterous  versions  had  had  their  day,  the  tale  quietly 
settled  down  that  Agnes  Macdonald,  impelled  by  a  gen- 
erous and  romantic  feeling,  had  so  strongly  urged  her 
grand-mother  to  receive  Lady  Shafton,  that  high  words 
had  ensued,  and  that  she  had  thereupon  sought  pro- 
tection from  her  aunt.     Indeed,  one  of  the  gossips  of 

D ,  (a  male  gossip,  too),  speaks  on  the  subject  still 

with  quite  positive  knowledge. 

'  I  will  tell  you  how  I  know  it,'  he  says  frequently 
to  his  intimates.  '  I  met  Mr.  Peters,  the  butler,  not 
three  days  after  it  happened,  and  I  asked  him  boldly  if 
it  were  true  that  he  was  sent  after  Miss  Macdonald  to 
London,  and  he  said,  "  Why,  not  exactly.  I  was  sent 
with  a  letter  to  Lady  Shafton.  Bless  you,  first  of  all 
we  thought  Miss  Agnes  had  run  away  to  get  married, 
but  that  wasn't  it;  for  when  I  got  up  to  the  London 
house,  there  were  the  whole  family  retired  to  roost  as 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      117 

if  nothing  had  happened.  Only  my  knocking  woke 
them,  and  her  leddyship  — that's  the  new-made  Lady 
Shafton  —  promised  I  should  see  Miss  Agnes,  and,  after 
a  little  while,  brought  her  down  in  a  morning-wrapper 
to  the  parlor,  and  then  she  told  me  how  she  had  sent 
her  son  to  Lauder  House,  to  assure  Lady  Macdonald 
that  her  grand-daughter  was  safe,  and  to  explain  how 
it  happened  that  she  had  taken  charge  of  Miss  Agnes 

all  the  way  from  D ."     Now,  putting  this  and  that 

together,'  continues  the  gossip,  '  I  can  make  out  the 
whole  thing.  There  was  the  meeting  in  the  morning 
at  the  inn  ;  Lady  Shafton  would  not  go  to  Lauder 
House  to  plead  her  own  cause  ;  the  little  niece,  im- 
patient to  see  her,  and  smarting  under  the  quarrel  with 
her  grandmother,  overtook  her  aunt  just  as  the  express 
train  was  starting ;  —  this  was  how  it  happened.  As 
for  the  foreign  governess  —  Peters  says  she  went  out 
with  Miss  Macdonald  that  evening  —  I  don't  clearly 
know  about  her  ;  but  it  was  a  dull  life  that  she  had  of 
it,  and  I  dare  say  she  wanted  to  get  back  to  her  own 
people,' 

Fortunate  Agnes,  to  be  left  to  the  fabrications  of  the 
gossips  —  but,  oh,  more  fortunate  to  have  your  secret 
faithfully  kept  by  them  who  knew  it ! 

The  meeting  of  Agnes  and  her  grandmother,  and 
the  return  of  Lady  Shafton,  invited,  honored,  wel- 
comed, to  the  roof  from  which  she  had  fled  twenty 
years  before,  have  something  too  sacred  to  be  briefly 
and  abruptly  described  ;  better,  far  better,  leave  them 
to  be  imagined  by  readers  who  may  have  sympa- 
thized with  the  characters  and  circumstances  of  the 
sisters. 


118  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Before  the  Christmas  week  had  passed,  not  only  was 
Lady  Shafton  her  sister's  guest,  but  her  husband  and 
her  children  were  gathered  round  that  venerable  lady 
with  respectful  affection.  Lady  iVIacdonald's  feelings 
were  very  strange.  She  was  not  happy,  although  new 
sources  of  happiness  were  opened  to  her.  The  wound 
of  her  recent  grief  was  still  fresh  ;  but  with  that  grief 
had  come  knowledge.  Had  some  such  grief  come  to 
her  thirty  years  before,  she  would  have  been  through 
the  prime  of  her  years  a  better  and  a  nobler  woman. 
Her  pride  at  last  had  bent  —  she  had  learnt  she  was 
fallible  ;  for  even  her  prejudices  told  her,  that  had  her 
system  been  perfect,  '  a  Macdonald  —  and  by  her 
mother's  side  a  Percy,'  as  she  loved  to  consider  Agnes, 
—  could  not  have  forgotten  her  dignity,  and  proved  a 
second  '  Black  Sheep  '  in  the  family. 

There  was  to  be  no  new  governess  for  Agnes  ;  Lady 
Macdonald  decided  to  take  a  house  in  town  —  to  have 
finishing-maslers  for  her  grand-daughter  —  to  relin- 
quish, at  nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  her  life  of  seclusion, 
and  once  again  to  enter  into  society. 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  my  pet,  Edward  ?  ' 
she  said  one  day  to  her  sister.  Months  had  now  passed, 
and  almost  daily  intercourse  had  removed  all  embar- 
rassment from  their  conversation. 

'  Ah,^  replied  Lady  Shafton,  '  I  wish  I  could  posi- 
tively answer.  He  is  going  back  to  college  for  a  few 
months,  but  we  must  decide  for  him  very  soon.' 

'  Would  he  like  the  army  .'' ' 

*  Only  too  well,  as  I  have  reason  to  know  ;  but  we 
have  little  interest  and  less  money  to  promote  him 
there.' 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      119 

'  Money,'  said  Lady  Macdonald,  after  a  short  pause, 
'  money  shall  not  be  wanting ;  in  short,  I  have  taken 
a  fancy  to  Edward,  and  you  must  leave  him  in  my 
hands.  I  have  interest,  if  I  choose  to  use  it;  and  so 
to-morrow  I  will  write  to  the  Commander-in-Chief — 
he  will  not  refuse  me.' 

And  so  on  the  morrow  she  did.  No  one  saw  her 
letter,  which,  however,  was  short  and  business-like  ; 
but  she  inclosed  two  or  three  time-stained  documents, 
the  paper  yellowed,  the  ink  browned  with  age,  and  at 
the  creases  holding  together  but  by  fibres.  These  evi- 
dences of  her  husband's  fame  had  been  worn  to  shreda 
by  frequent  opening ;  for  they  had  been  to  Lady  Mac- 
donald as  dear  and  sacred  as  are  the  relics  of  a  saint 
to  a  superstitious  devotee. 

Her  confidence  was  not  misplaced.  The  Com- 
mander-in-Chief declared  that  '  a  request  from  the 
widow  of  Sir  Andrew  Macdonald  was  a  command,' 
and  naming  three  regiments,  requested  her  to  chooso 
between  them. 

'■■  Dearest  Margaret,'  exclaimed  Lady  Shafton,  when 
the  subject  was  under  discussion,  and  perceiving  which 
way  her  sister  inclined,  '  these  brilliant  prospects  for 
Edward  terrify  me  in  one  respect.     The  officers  of  the 

th  are,  as  every  one  knows,  noblemen  or  men  of 

fortune  —  how  can  he  with  small  means  associate  with 
them  on  equal  terms  ?  ' 

'  I  have  thought  of  all  this,'  said  Lady  Macdonald, 
promptly;  'you  forgot  that  J  have  undertaken  to  pro- 
vide for  him.  My  dear  Mary,  I  have  been  saving  half 
my  income  for  twenty  years,  and  am  richer  than  you 
suspect ;  and  as  for  Agnes,  her  mother's  fortune  se- 


120  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

cured  to  her,  has  already  doubled  by  lying  untouched. 
Edward  is  a  gentleman  every  inch  ;  and  the  Shaftons 
are  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  England.  I  wonder, 
Mary,  you  never  told  me  so.' 

'  I  never  knew  it,'  said  Lady  Shafton,  smiling  ;  '  my 
husband  cares  only  for  his  art,  and  I  believe,  if  the 
truth  were  to  be  told,  would  rather  be  descended  from 
Michael  Angelo's  color-grinder  than  from  William  the 
Conqueror.' 

'How  extraordinary!'  exclaimed  Lady  Macdonald, 
'and  in  such  a  man,  with  "patrician"  stamped  in 
every  movement. 

'  The  stamp  of  genius,  darling  sister,'  exclaimed 
Lady  Shafton,  enraptured  at  this  appreciation  of  her 
beloved  husband  at  last. 

'  Nonsense  ;  directly  my  attention  was  drawn  to  the 
subject  I  found  out  all  about  the  family.  There  was  a 
Sir  Hugh  Shafton  distinguished  in  the  wars  of  the 
Roses,  and  a  descendant  of  his  intermarried  with  the 
Howards.  Some  of  the  oldest  families  in  England 
have  fallen  into  similar  decay.' 

Later  that  day  Lady  Macdonald  observed, 

'If  Agnes  were  to  marry  a  gentleman  wanting  fixed 
position,  I  could  easily  obtain  the  restoration  of  the 
baronetcy  extinct  by  the  failure  of  male  heirs.  The 
Government  would  not  refuse   me.' 

Ah !  it  was  easy  to  see  in  what  direction  her  thoughts 
were  roaming.  Edward's  words  on  th^night  he  came 
to  Lauder  House,  as  the  herald  of  peace  and  reconcilia- 
tion, had  never  left  her  memory,  —  that  declaration  of 
pity  and  sympathy  for  Agnes,  which  had  drawn  from 
her  the  exclamation,  '  You  —  you,  but  no  other ! '   Her 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      121 

own  words  seemed  to  haunt  her,  and  point  to  but  one 
result.  Nor  was  there  in  this  the  inconsistency  which 
at  first  there  seems.  Pride,  her  ruling  passion,  was  still 
her  ally  ;  it  taught  her  that  Agnes  could  never  wed 
without  a  confession  of  her  early  fault ;  and  yet,  how 
was  the  revelation  to  be  endured  ?  Poor  Agnes  !  No 
girl  or  woman  ever  commits  your  fault  without  having 
some  penalty  to  pay  ! 

Perhaps,  too,  the  consideration  in  which  Lady  Mac- 
donald  perceived  Sir  William  Shafton  and  his  family 
were  held  had  its  weight ;  for  at  his  house  she  met  the 
bearers  of  ancient  names  who  paid  their  homage  to 
genius,  and  moved,  without  a  dream  of  condescension, 
among  the  new  nobility  —  the  aristocracy  of  active  in- 
tellect—  which  is  ruling  the  world.  Though  her  mind 
had  rusted  by  torpor,  Lady  Macdonald  was  far  too 
clever  not  to  recognise  the  fact,  that  while  she  had  se- 
cluded herself  to  rear  two  generations,  the  world  had 
rolled  on  to  a  brighter,  purer  atmosphere,  than  was 
known  when  she  left  it.  Military  Gloi'y  was  well  and 
right  when  duly  earned,  and  it  had  made  way  for  the 
Victories  of  Peace ;  but  the  world  had  other  glories  also 
now.  Her  head  whirled  sometimes  when  she  thought 
of  these  things,  —  yet  she  did  not  turn  away  from  the 
contemplation. 

But  what  of  the  persons  chiefly  concerned  ?  very 
naturally  asks  the  reader  —  what  of  Edward  Shafton 
and  Agnes  Macdonald  themselves  ?  Why,  that  there 
was  much  in  their  age,  relationship,  which  though  dis- 
tant, was  relationship  still,  —  and  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  their  position,  which  drew  them  insensibly 
nearly,  dearly,  and  intimately  together  ;  and  that  every 


1^  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

one  about  them  was  far  too  prudent  to  mar  the  project 
which  everybody  wished  fulfilled,  by  appearing  to 
know  anything  about  it.  Yet  there  was  a  marriage  in 
the  family,  and  that  the  first  year  of  Lady  Macdonald's 
residence  in  London. 

The  stranger  of  the  railway-carriage  fulfilled  his  pro- 
mise of  calling  in  Harley-street,  and  sent  in  his  card, 
*  Mr.  Gerald  Wentmore.'  He  was  a  rich  man  now, 
and  on  the  eve  of  being  returned  member  for  a  northern 
county  —  on  Lady  Macdonald's  side  of  politics  too. 
Need  we  tell  of  the  second  wooing  of  her  who  had 
refused,  but  truly  loved  him  ?  Enough  that,  though 
Hester  listened  to  the  story  of  his  faith,  kept  unchanged 
through  years,  —  faith  to  a  sentiment,  a  remembrance, 
he  did  not  tell  her  of  the  words  repeated  by  the  pre- 
tended Baroness,  and  which  fanned  once  more  into  a 
flame  the  smouldering  embers  of  hope.  Very  likely 
she  has  owned  to  him  the  truth  which  they  conveyed  ; 
but  lovers'  tete-d-tetes  are  sacred,  even  though  the 
lovers  be  no  longer  young. 

Nothing  positive  is  known  of  the  '  Baroness '  and  her 
brother ;  but  a  pair,  singularly  like  them  from  descrip- 
tion, have  been  recently  convicted  as  swindlers. 

And  now  for  our  further  facts  we  are  indebted  to 
the  Morning  Post.  Among  the  presentations  at  her 
Majesty's  last  drawing-room,  we  read,  '  Mrs.  Gerald 
Wentmore,  on  her  marriage,  by  her  sister.  Lady  Mac- 
donald,'  and  '  Miss  Macdonald,  by  her  aunt.  Lady  Shaf- 
ton.'  And  lower  down,  among  the  on  dits,  there  was 
this  paragraph  :  — 

'  It  is  confidently  reported  that  a  marriage  is  on  the 
tapis   between   the   beautiful  and  accomplished  Miss 


THE  BLACK  SHEEP  OF  THE  FAMILY.      123 

Macdonald,  grand-daughter   of  the  late   Sir  Andrew 
Macdonald,  Bart.,  K.  C.  B.,  &c.  &c.,  and  the  gallant 

Captain  Shafton,  of  the th  Dragoons,  only  son  of 

our  English  Correggio,  Sir  William  Shafton.' 


HAUNTED    HOUSES. 


*  A  jolly  place,'  said  he, '  in  times  of  old  ! 
Bat  gomething  ails  it  now :  the  place  is  curst.' 

WOHDSWORTH. 

There  is  a  certain  class  of  literature,  that  must  now 
be  very  near  its  death-struggle.  It  has  passed  through 
the  stages  when  hot-pressed  paper,  once  devoted  to  its 
use,  lined  the  bodies  of  trunks  and  assisted  the  cheese- 
monger. In  those  days  it  still  claimed  the  semi- 
respect  which  belongs  to  fallen  greatness  ;  but  now  the 
thick  creamy  paper  rejects  it  altogether,  and  it  strives 
for  a  protracted  existence  only  on  the  poor-looking, 
but  mischievous  sheets  that  circulate  among  the  igno- 
rant, the  idle,  and  the  vicious.  It  is  acquainted  with 
low  taverns  and  miserable  dwellings  ;  and  after  pollut- 
ing the  minds  of  its  readers  to  the  best  of  its  ability, 
wraps  up  some  nauseous  preparation  of  tobacco,  pre- 
paratory to  being  trampled  in  the  kennel.  This  is  a 
more  ignoble  fate  than  winding  round  wholesome 
butter,  or  lining  a  strong  leathern  trunk. 

The  very  themes  which  associate  themselves  in  our 
minds  with  this  repudiated  '  Minerva  Press '  School  of 
writing  belong,  when  treated  by  a  master-hand,  to  the 
highest  ranks  of  literature.  Romantic  fiction  is  some- 
times the  right  hand  of  philosophy,  and  teaches  deeper 


HAUNTED   HOUSES.  125 

'  truths  than  those  which  dwell  on  the  historian's  page  ; 
and  many  things  which,  for  want  of  a  more  exact 
term,  we  call  Superstition,  are  intimately  interwoven 
with  much  that  is  precious  in  religion,  in  morals,  and 
in  poetry.  When  Genius  touches  a  fragment  of  Super- 
stition, the  dross  all  falls  away,  leaving  the  pure  inde- 
structible ore  to  be  handled  and  fashioned  to  a  shape  of 
beauty.  This  did  Shakspere  a  hundred  times  ;  and 
Coleridge  in  his  '  Ancient  Mariner ; '  Scott  in  his  '  Lady 
of  Avenel ; '  and  —  not  to  prolong  an  infinite  string  of 
quotations  —  poor  Hood,  in  his  beautiful  poem,  '  The 
Haunted  House.' 

The  Superstition  of  '  Haunted  Houses,'  is  as  '  old  as 
the  hills,'  or  if  not  quite  so  venerable,  seems  to  have 
originated  as  soon  as  houses  were  built.  But  the  su- 
perstition especially  prolonged  to  the  feudal  times, 
when  every  baronial  dwelling  had  its  tale  to  be  told  of 
strife  and  bloodshed  ;  when  might,  not  right,  gained 
the  day ;  when  written  chronicles  were  few,  and  the 
story  literally  repeated  at  first,  gained  something  from 
the  imagination  of  each  successive  narrator,  till,  in  a 
few  generations,  facts  became  so  warped  and  disfig- 
ured, so  added  to  and  subtracted  from,  that  the  very 
actors  in  the  life-dramas  recorded  would  not  have 
recognised  the  scenes  and  events  described,  could 
they  indeed  have  risen  from  their  tombs  and  haunted 
the  story-tellers !  Somehow  or  other,  the  legend 
becomes  vulgarized  in  the  light  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury :  instead  of  a  beautiful  lady,  attired  in  flowing 
white  draperies,  with  shining  dark  hair,  (not  out  of  curl 
from  the  dews  of  night,  or  contact  with  her  earthy 
resting-place,)  who  at   the  dead  of  night  paced  the 


ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

long  corridors  of  the  '  Haunted  House  '  with  noiseless 
tread,  ever  resting  at  one  spot,  ever  pointing  to  one 
panel,  (wliere  of  course  there  was  hidden  the  proof  of 
some  '  rightful  heir's  '  claims,)  ever  vanishing  at  crow- 
of-cock,  yet  ever  returning  ;  —  instead  of  this,  the  more 
modern  version  is  that  of  an  invisible  sprite,  whose  lof- 
tiest mission  is  to  ring  the  bells  and  break  the  china  — 
in  this  last  particular  generously  taking  upon  himself 
the  misdeeds  of  the  cat  or  the  kitchen-maid. 

Surely,  however,  in  this  marked  degeneracy  of  the 
latter-day  ghosts,  we  can  trace  the  symptoms  of  their 
decaying  influence. 

But  let  us  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  real,  old-fash- 
ioned, orthodox  Haunted  House,  and  conjure  up  to  the 
mind's  eye  at  least  its  material  features.  It  is  a  gloomy, 
desolate  looking  pile,  deserted  by  the  owner,  going  to 
wreck  and  ruin  from  neglect.  The  rusty  gate  creaks 
on  the  one  hinge  by  which  it  hangs ;  the  gravel  path  is 
green  with  moss  and  weeds  ;  a  few  hardy  garden  flow- 
ers grow  wild,  when  not  quite  choked  by  the  deadly  em- 
brace of  the  beth-bind  ;  dark,  thick  leaved  trees  spread 
forth  their  straggling  branches,  which  seem  in  the  twi- 
light like  ready  palls  for  the  coffined  dead  ;  the  fish-pond 
is  but  a  stagnant  pool,  too  fetid  even  for  the  water-lilies 
to  live,  —  only  long  reedy  grass  can  draw  nourishment 
from  its  pollution  ;  the  statue  which  graced  the  en- 
trance ball  are  noseless,  fingerless,  or  headless  ;  the 
banisters  are  broken  ;  the  rats  have  gnawed  away  the 
■wainscot  ;  the  stairs  are  fascinatingly  dangerous  to 
tread  ;  the  mildewed  '  arras '  flaps  with  every  breeze ; 
the  windows  are  broken,  and  bats  and  owls  flit  in  and 
out ;   dust  and  damp  are  the  varnish  to  everything, 


HAUNTED   HOUSES.  127 

and  cobwebs  tbe  appropriate  drapery ;  there  is  a  stain 
on  the  oaken  floor,  impervious  to  scouring  drops,  and 
defiant  of  patent  scrubbing-brushes  ;  —  and  —  and  the 
visitor  is  invited  to  listen  to  the  story  of  the  'White 
Lady,'  or  the  '  Warrior  Knight,'  who,  on  account  of 
their  own  unrepented  sins,  are  permitted  to  frighten 
and  torment  their  descendants,  or  stranger  guests.  But 
these,  whatever  their  private  and  individual  failings, 
never  did  the  ghosts  any  harm,  either  in  the  body  or 
the  spirit ;  and  it  must  be  allowed  that  the  revenants 
are  sadly  deficient  in  a  sense  of  justice  and  considera- 
tion for  nervous  people.  The  French  word,  literally 
'  comer-back,'  is  more  expressive  than  our  own. 

But  there  are  other  sorts  of  Haunted  Houses  than 
those  which  have  found  favor  with  ballad-mongers  and 
story-tellers.  Houses  where  neither  dust  nor  damp 
prevails  ;  where  cobwebs  are  carefully  brushed  away  ; 
and  where  the  busy  stir  of  human  life  proclaims  these 
dwellings  to  be  lawfully  occupied  Houses,  bright- 
faced  to  meet  the  open  sunshine,  either  in  the  crowded 
city,  or  by  the  breezy  downs  ;  houses  which  own  no 
legend  of  the  midnight  hour,  and  yet  are  haunted  by 
spirits  potent  for  good  and  evil. 

See  that  modest  looking  dwelling;  it  is  one  of  a  row 
all  built  by  the  same  rule  and  measure,  and  yet  it  has 
a  distinct  character  of  its  own.  The  door-steps  are  a 
thought  whiter  than  those  of  its  neighbors,  and  it  may 
be  the  windows  are  somewhat  brighter.  Yet  little  rosy 
cheeks,  and  shining  golden  curls,  often  lean  against 
the  glass,  especially  when  he  is  expected  who  ever 
returns  from  the  labors  of  the  day  with  loving  smiles 
and  cheerful  words.     A  young  matron  plies  her  needle 


1^  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

a  little  apart  from  those  eager  watchers,  yet  looks  from 
time  to  time  over  their  heads,  or  between  the  net-work 
of  their  wreathed  arms  ;  the  '  neat-handed '  serving 
maid  —  there  is  but  one  —  listens  also  for  the  well- 
known  step,  and  knows  it  the  signal  for  tea  to  be 
ready.  The  children  have  pets,  feathered  and  four- 
footed,  which  are  tamed  to  intelligence  ;  and  an  old 
superannuated  dog,  that  once  a  day  recovers  its  spright- 
liness  to  welcome  the  master.  The  well-conditioned 
cat  too,  purrs  musically  at  his  feet,  and  rubs  her  sleek 
head  against  his  boot.  It  is  what  thousands  would  call 
an  humble  home  —  but  a  lofty  spirit  haunts  the  place 

—  the  holy  and  beautiful  spirit  of  Love  !  No  living 
thing  within  its  precincts  trembles  at  harsh  words  or 
frowning  looks  —  a  band  of  invisible  fairies,  evoked 
by  their  ruler,  circle  round  the  walls,  and  exorcise 
Fear,  and  Fear's  attendant  vices  from  Love's  happy 
dominions. 

Only  the  next  door  —  but  what  a  difference  !  —  the 
very  atmosphere  seems  changed  as  you  enter.  It  is 
the  house  of  a  tyrant  —  one  of  that  miserable  class 
who  love  power  in  its  meanest  shape.  He  has  chased 
Power  as  a  savage  chases  and  woos  a  mistress,  and  has 
found  it  at  last  in  his  money-bags.     Yet  he  is  a  miser 

—  and  spends  not  to  bless  or  enjoy.  What  evil  spirits 
haunt  the  house  !  Little  yellow  imps  sit  perched  upon  a 
large  tin  box,  that  holds  hard-hearted  bonds  and  shriv- 
elled leases,  and  they  grin  and  jabber  with  demoniac 
glee  when  the  winter  wind  blows  bitter  cold,  and  the 
snow-flakes  fall,  and  the  gaunt  and  famished  wanderer 
begs  her  way  to  the  workhouse  gate.  Terror,  too,  like 
a  grim  skeleton,  stalks  up  and  down,  making  every 


fiAUNTED   HOUSES.  129 

living  thing  to  tremble  ;  and  in  league  with  this  master- 
spirit there  have  been  summoned  a  troop  of  demon 
dwarfs  —  sharp  cunning,  deceit,  meanness  —  which 
always  come  where  Fear  abides  to  weave  their  tan- 
gled nets.  Alas  !  they  seem  to  be  but  ready  servants 
to  the  trembling  coward  whom  tyranny  has  crushed  to 
their  companionship  ;  and  yet  as  they  weave  and 
weave,  and  work  and  work,  the  shuttle  flies  further 
and  further  till  the  web  of  evil  has  grown  a  mighty 
one,  and  makes  of  him  who  called  it  into  being  a 
miserable  captive  for  life  ! 

Let  us  enter  now  that  stylish-looking  mansion.  The 
rooms  are  lofty,  and  maintain  an  air  of  elegance.  The 
walls  are  used  to  echo  song,  and  jest,  and  hollow  laugh- 
ter ;  the  wide  mirrors  to  reflect  a  throng  of  stranger 
faces  ;  and  yet  the  house  is  haunted  by  an  ugly  sprite, 
that  sits  at  the  board  when  costly  viands  are  displayed, 
and  bright  wines  poured.  The  sprite  wears  a  broad 
and  comely  mask  over  its  own  bloated,  ill-favored 
countenance,  but  the  mask  is  always  slipping  aside,  and 
everybody  sees  that  it  is  Ostentation,  not  Hospitality, 
which  does  the  honors.  Ostentation  makes  every  place 
disagreeable  that  he  inhabits ;  for  his  law  is  to  seem, 
and  not  to  be.  Once  firmly  established,  seldom  any- 
thing but  poverty  can  drive  him  away — and  poverty 
often  comes  at  last,  introduced  by  the  go-between 
Extravagance. 

Very  often  large  buildings,  where  hundreds  of  human 
beings  congregate,  and  toil  from  early  dawn  to  long 
past  sun-set,  are  only  haunted  houses.  Haunted  by 
the  cruel  spirit  of  Avarice,  that  for  its  own  earthly 
gain  sacrifices  souls  and  bodies.  It  bows  down  young 
9 


130  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

children  to  disease  and  death  ;  it  robs  youth  of  its 
bloom,  and  the  just  inheritance  of  hope  and  fruition ; 
it  degrades  man  to  a  worse  condition  than  that  of  the 
brutes,  for  it  forces  his  higher,  but  unused  powers,  to 
dwindle  to  incapacity,  and  thus  peoples  the  land  with 
ignorance  and  vice,  with  the  overthrowers  of  order  and 
the  doers  of  evil,  making  these  of  the  very  souls  that 
might  have  expanded  to  noble  offices. 

Avarice  often  takes  more  fair  sounding  names  than 
its  own,  and  there  are  certainly  degrees  in  its  malig- 
nity ;  but  too  seldom  it  is  banished  altogether  from 
the  '  mill '  and  the  mart,  from  the  warehouse  and  the 
counter ! 

We  must  breathe  more  freely  ;  come  away  to  beneath 
a  different  roof,  where  mind  is  worlcing  for  the  good  of 
humanity.  There  are  many  such,  —  the  school-house, 
—  the  lecture  hall,  —  the  picture-gallery,  —  the  print- 
ing office,  —  and  the  quiet  home  in  which  the  Thinker 
broods,  and  whence  he  sends  the  spiritual  sheet,  or  the 
eloquent  canvass,  or  calls  to  being  whatever  the  mate- 
rial instrument  he  chooses  for  his  purpose.  The  Spirit 
of  Wisdom  'haunts'  the  place  to  make  it  holy,  and 
stretches  its  fair  white  wings  around  to  keep  off  evil 
influences.  Justice,  and  Truth,  and  Charity,  stand 
hand  in  hand  ;  and  Love,  the  love  of  all  humanity, 
nestles  there,  for  True  Wisdom  is  not  to  be  separated 
from  the  Virtues. 

Every  house  is  a  '  Haunted  House,'  if  we  think  of  it 
in  this  fashion  ;  and  fancy  can  almost  give  a  corporeal 
shape  to  each  invisible  presence.  An  evil  spirit  is 
only  to  be  exorcised  by  its  opposite  ;  but  though  self- 
ishness, ill-temper,  and  avarice,  are   potent  despots, 


HAUNTED   HOUSES.  181 

clinging  with  tight  hold  to  the  thrones  they  have 
usurped,  spreading  misery  like  a  pestilence,  and  with- 
ering goodness  and  happiness  wherever  they  abide, 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  yet  mightier  powers,  with  an 
infinite  train  of  fairy  followers,  ever  ready  to  vanquish 
the  evil  spirits,  ever  ready  to  sit  by  our  hearths,  if  wo 
will  but  invite  them  with  hearty  good-will ! 


THE  HARTSDALE  VINDICATOR,  OR  MODERN 
INNOVATIONS. 

*  Well,  my  dear  Sir,  have  you  heard  the  news  ?  ' 
said  Major  Stukely,  a  retired  officer  in  an  English 
country  town,  to  a  friend  who  had  only  just  returned 
home  after  an  absence  of  some  weeks. 

*  Not  a  word  have  I  heard  that  deserves  to  be  called 
news,'  replied  he  ;  '  what  is  going  on,  pray  ?  ' 

*  Why,  a  railway  is  to  pass  through  the  town  ;  that 
is  all.' 

*  A  railway !  nonsense,'  cried  the  other ;  '  we  are 
very  well  as  we  are.  Everything  goes  on  very  nicely 
at  present.  The  stage-coach  that  comes  to  the  town 
daily,  is  sufficient  for  all  the  traffic ;  and  to  break  in 
upon  this  quiet  rural  scene  with  one  of  their  horrid 
snorting  locomotives,  would  be  a  downright  sin.' 

'  Gentlemen,  j'ou  will  all  come  to  my  way  of  think- 
ing at  last,'  interposed  Mr,  Elliot,  the  medical  prac- 
titioner of  the  place,  as  he  joined  the  group.  '  We  must 
have  a  paper  to  protect  our  interests.  What  with  the 
new  poor-laws,  and  fifty  other  new-fangled  things,  we 
shall  go  completely  to  the  wall  if  we  do  not  assert  our 
opinions,  and  have  our  say  against  such  innovations. 
Ah,  if  old  Sir  George  had  been  living,  he  would  have 
taken  care  to  preserve  such  a  fine  hunting  county  as 


THE    HARTSDALE    VINDICATOR.  133 

this  from  these  abominable  changes.  For  my  own  part, 
I  sliould  not  wonder  if,  in  twenty  years,  there  is  not  a 
fox  to  be  found.  As  for  our  member,  the  present  Sir 
George,  he  is  not  a  bit  of  a  sportsman ;  in  fact,  I  look 
upon  him  as  a  traitor,  and  think,  when  we  do  establish 
a  paper,  he  ought  to  be  shown  up.  Why,  he  haa 
actually  given  permission  for  the  railway  to  pass  right 
through  his  park.' 

*  But  he  stipulated  for  a  bridge  over  it,  and  really 
some  persons  think  his  property  is  in  no  way  injured,* 
interrupted  one  who,  though  speaking  in  a  gentle  voice, 
ventured  to  have  an  opinion  of  her  own  on  two  or  threOi 
subjects.  '  And  as  for  the  foxes,'  she  continued,  '  if  th© 
end  and  aim  of  hunting  be  their  extirpation,  as  we  must 
suppose,  the  result  of  all  these  changes  which  yon 
anticipate  will  be  a  very  happy  one.' 

'  Ah,  Miss  Somers,'  said  Mr.  Elliot,  'you  have  not  led 
a  country  life,  or  you  would  not  speak  in  that  way. 

'  Nay,  ever  since  I  left  school,  for  seven  years  Harts- 
dale  has  been  my  home,'  she  replied  ;  '  yet  I  think 
now,  as  I  thought  long  ago,  that  the  chase  is  an  occu- 
pation only  fit  for  savages,  and  that  the  lover  of  it  must 
of  necessity  be  devoid  of  humanity  and  intellectual 
cultivation.  To  be  sure  I  feel  so  great  a  disgust  to- 
wards sportsmen,  that  I  have  as  little  compassion  for 
them  as  they  bestow  on  the  brutes,  and  never  can 
grieve  when  the  loss  of  life  or  limb  brings  them  their 
just  deserts.  However,  as  you  say,  had  I  lived  all  my 
life  in  the  country,  and  been  taken  when  a  little  girl 
to  see  the  hounds  throw  off,  and  been  taught  by  my 
brothers  that  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  maim  poor  birds, 
and  to  torture   a  timid  hare,  perhaps  I  might  have 


184  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

thought  differently.  But  I  am  thankful  to  Providence, 
that,  as  it  is,  I  know  how  to  call  some  things  by  their 
right  names.' 

Louisa  Somers  warmed  as  she  spoke,  for  she  felt 
keenly  on  the  subjects  then  under  discussion.  And  it 
is  a  happy  thing  for  the  improvement  of  the  world,  that 
young  minds  are  for  ever  springing  up,  untrammelled 
by  old  habits  or  dee'p-rooted  prejudices,  but  with  strong 
energies  and  fresh  hearts,  ready  to  open  out  new  and 
better  paths. 

'  I  was  saying,'  proceeded  Mr.  Elliot,  who  was  an 
excellent  man,  though  a  little  wrong-headed  on  some 
points  — '  I  was  saying  that,  since  Sir  George  has  de- 
clared himself  on  the  side  of  these  ridiculous  and  mis- 
chievous innovators,  I  have  no  hope  for  Hartsdale  but 
in  the  firmness  and  consistency  of  its  inhabitants  ;  and 
I  think  the  idea  of  a  monthly  newspaper  an  admirable 
one.  Every  considerable  body  requires  its  organ. 
We  have  been  too  long  without  one,  and  have  conse- 
quently become  the  prey  of  interlopers  and  speculators 
of  all  sorts.' 

The  somewhat  pompous  major,  who  had  carried 
into  private  life  some  of  the  prejudices  of  his  military 
career,  and  was  a  hater  of  all  new  plans  and  projects, 
perfectly  agreed  with  the  doctor,  and  favored  him 
with  many  suggestions  thought  by  both  to  be  very 
admirable. 

The  conversation  to  which  I  have  alluded  took  place 
on  the  occasion  of  a  tea-parly  at  the  house  of  the  Misses 
Gunning,  two  ancient  ladies,  who,  though  they  bore  the 
traces  of  having  been  dowered  in  their  youth  with 
beauty  not  inferior  to  that  of  their  famous  namesakes, 


THE   HARTSDALE    VINDICATOR.  135 

had  passed  their  lives  in  a  calm  seclusion  the  very 
opposite  to  the  career  of  the  celebrated  dames.  Miss 
Elizabeth,  the  younger,  had  been  betrothed  forty  years 
ago  to  a  handsome  soldier  cousin,  who  fell  in  the  pen- 
insular war.  The  shock  to  her  mind,  and  the  grief 
that  followed  his  death,  brought  on  a  tedious  illness, 
and  during  many  years  her  sister  Susan  devoted  her- 
self to  the  sufferer  with  that  self-devotion,  patience,  and 
affection,  which  belong  to  the  heroism  of  private  life. 
Tenderly  attached  to  each  other,  the  minds  of  both 
were  sobered  down  from  youth's  giddiness  by  that 
which  had  been  a  mutual  grief;  and  even  when  Time, 
the  healer,  had  worked  its  cure,  they  looked  on  the 
world  with  different  eyes,  different  wishes,  different 
expectations,  from  those  of  their  untroubled  days. 
They  determined  to  live  for  each  other  only,  and, 
several  yeai"s  before  this  little  story  opens,  they  chose 
Laurel  Cottage  for  their  residence. 

If  I  am  too  minute  in  sketching  the  incidents  which 
had  moulded  such  simple  characters  as  theirs,  the 
reader  will  bear  with  it,  because  it  is  only  by  remem- 
bering the  quiet  course  of  their  latter  years,  and  the 
tone  of  feeling  —  so  averse  to  change  —  which  pre- 
vailed in  the  little  town,  that  he  can  understand  the 
perplexities  which  came  upon  its  inhabitants.  A  word 
must  be  said  about  Hartsdale  itself.  Tradition  attri- 
butes the  name  to  some  romantic  incident  of  a  hart 
escaping  thhher  from  the  hunters,  one  of  whom  lost 
his  life  in  attempting  to  follow  it  down  a  ravine.  The 
spot  is  shown  by  the  learned  to  the  curious  to  this  day. 
Situated  in  a  beautiful  valley  of  one  of  the  midland 
counties  of  England,  and  distant  about  twelve  miles 


136  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

from  a  cathedral  city,  Hartsdale,  though  it  boasts  a 
market  once  a  week,  and  enumerates  other  privileges 
which  help  to  constitute  a  town  instead  of  a  village,  \s 
a  place  to  which  change  and  improvements  for  some 
time  travelled  but  slowly  ;  and  this,  although  in  the 
'  old  times '  of  fiery  red,  bright  blue,  and  blinding  yel- 
low stage-coaches,  no  fewer  than  ten  of  these  machines 
passed  down  the  High  Street  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
But,  alas !  they  passed,  or  seldom  indeed  stopped  to 
cast  upon  the  barrenness  one  particle  of  news.  Yet 
stay  !  The  '  Telegraph,'  moving  with  a  four-horse 
power  at  the  rate  of  eight  miles  an  hour,  did  in  those 
golden  days  change  horses  at  the  White  Hart  Inn,  and 
consequently  and  naturally  the  Telegraph  was  voted 
by  the  Hartsdalians  to  be  the  safest,  quickest,  finest, 
and  every  way  most  desirable  vehicle  on  the  road. 
From  the  driver  or  passengers  of  the  Telegraph  a 
morsel  of  news  sometimes  fell,  like  a  crumb  to  the 
hungry  ;  but  the  mail  even  dropped  the  letter-bag 
without  stopping  !  Nevertheless,  I  have  a  firm  convic- 
tion that  the  circumstance  of  the  town  lying  in  a  road 
through  which  ten  coaches  per  day,  to  diflferent  parts  of 
the  kingdom,  must  pass,  had  been  a  pride,  a  pleasure, 
and  an  attraction,  not  to  be  estimated  by  those  who, 
from  their  proximity  to  populous  places,  have  rather  an 
aversion  than  otherwise  to  the  sound  of  wheels. 

But  a  new  era  was  at  hand  ;  within  the  last  two 
years  the  railways  had  intruded  on  Hartsdale  :  those 
moral  arteries  which,  traversing  the  kingdom  from 
end  to  end,  carrying  intelligence  of  all  sorts  to  and 
from  its  mighty  heart,  and  so  removing  prejudices, 
jealousies,  and  enmities,  are  destined  to  prove  among 


THE   HARTSDALE   VINDICATOR.  137 

those  triumphs  of  science  which  bless  and  regenerate 
mankind.  But  the  little  community,  not  clear-sighted 
or  long-sighted  enough  to  perceive  all  these  advan- 
tages, and  full  of  local  pride  and  present  interests,  saw 
nothing  but  the  petty  inconveniences  and  personal  in- 
juries attendant  on  the  changes  of  the  time.  One  by 
one  the  stage-coaches  dropped  away,  just  in  proportion 
as  the  new  lines  in  the  neighboring  counties  were 
thrown  open.  No  longer  could  the  schoolmistress 
dismiss  her  little  flock  without  reference  to  clock  or 
sun-dial,  knowing  full  well  that  when  the  horn  of  the 
'Defiance'  fast  coach  was  sounded,  it  must  be  one 
o'clock.  No  longer  could  the  grocer's  wife  regulate 
her  spouse's  dinner-hour  by  the  appearance  of  '  Light- 
ning' on  the  brow  of  the  hill.  The  proud  Defiance 
lay  humbled  to  the  dust,  wheelless  and  degraded,  in  a 
coach-maker's  yard,  preparatory  to  being  chopped  up 
for  firewood  ;  and  Lightning  was  extinct,  or  departed 
no  one  knew  whither.  At  last  a  pert  new-stuccoed 
station  was  erected  within  three  miles  of  the  town,  and 
the  encroaching  iron  enemy  thus  brought  as  it  were  to 
their  very  door.  Even  the  Telegraph  —  their  own 
dear  Telegraph  —  that  had  been  true  to  them  through 
all,  showed, symptoms  of  desertion.  Yet  what  could 
IT  do,  poor  thing  ?  It  died  very  hard.  Day  after  day 
it  drove  through  the  town  without  a  single  passenger  ; 
then  the  four  horses  were  reduced  to  two  ;  and,  finally, 
so  convinced  were  the.Hartsdalians  that  it  had  '  done 
all  which  it  became  a  coach  to  do '  in  the  maintenance 
of  its  existence  and  its  dignity  —  so  clearly  did  they 
perceive  that  it  was  vanquished  only  by  the  stern 
power  of  a  resistless  foe  —  that  though  tears  were 


138  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

shed  at  the  announcement  that  it  too  had  found  its 
'  occupation  gone,'  pity  was  bestowed  upon  the  pro- 
prietor and  coachman,  instead  of  the  torrent  of 
reproach  which  had  been  showered  on  the  heads  of 
the  earlier  deserters. 

And  now  the  blow  had  fallen  —  Hartsdale  was  with- 
out a  coach  !  And  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
several  inconveniences  were  the  result.  Not  only  did 
the  Misses  Gunning  feel  lonely  and  desolate,  now 
that  they  could  no  longer  start  to  their  window  half  a 
dozen  times  a  day  to  behold  a  coach  load  of  dusty  or 
mud-bespattered  travellers,  but  whenever  they  them- 
selves made  an  excursion  of  a  few  miles  —  it  scarcely- 
mattered  in  which  direction  —  a  calamity  fell  on  them, 
to  which  custom  brought  no  reconciling  feelings. 
Their  elderly  man-servant  Peter,  in  addition  to  his 
care  of  the  garden,  was  groom,  to,  and  driver  of,  a 
stout  horse,  to  which  was  ordinarily  attached  a  low 
phaeton.  The  body  of  the  carriage  only  held  the 
two  ladies  conveniently — though  there  were  many 
persons  who  thought  there  was  abundant  room  for  a 
third  —  but  the  seat  beside  the  driver  was  one  surely 
open  for  lawful  competition.  Now  that  there  were  no 
coaches  to  take  them  short  stages,  what  could  people 
possessing  neither  carriages  nor  horses  do  but  —  beg 
the  use  of  them  from  their  more  fortunate  neighbors  ? 
Sometimes — if  the  weather  were  doubtful  there  was 
the  readier  plea  —  there  came  a  courteous  message  at 
breakfast-time  to  ask,  '  If  the  Misses  Gunning  were 

going  into  C that  day,  would  they  be  so  very 

kind  as  to  give  Mr.  So-and-so  a  seat  beside  Peter  ?  or 
if  they  were  not  going  to  use  the  phaeton  any  day  that 


THE   HARTSDALE   VINDICATOR.  139 

week,  he  would  consider  it  a  particular  obligation  if 
they  would  lend  it  to  him.  Mrs.  So-and-so  had  heard 
that  their  darling  Eleanor  at  school  seven  miles  off, 
had  fallen  down  and  hurt  her  wrist,  and  she  was  so 
anxious  to  see  her  —  cross  roads  —  no  conveyance  — 
a  thousand  apologies,'  &c.  &c. 

Now,  the  dear  old  ladies  had  the  kindest  hearts  in 
the  world  —  hearts  so  kind  that  their  humanity  ex- 
tended to  the  brutes ;  and  they  plainly  perceived  that 
the  position  of  their  horse  Tartar  was  ceasing  to  be 
the  enviable  one  it  had  long  been  considered.  A 
council  was  held,  to  which  Peter  was  called  ;  and  he, 
judgmg,  as  he  said,  by  the  manner  in  which  Tartar 
threw  back  his  ears,  either  when  he  started  with  an 
unusual  load  or  took  up  a  stray  pedestrian  on  the  way, 
was  of  opinion  that  the  horse  could  not  stand  it.  Alas! 
alas  !  many  a  time  the  ladies  deprived  themselves  of 
their  accustomed  ride  to  oblige  an  acquaintance,  stipu- 
lating always,  however,  that  Peter  should  drive,  on 
which  occasions  he  took  care  that  Tartar  should  neither 
go  too  far  nor  too  fast. 

And  now  another  disturbance  was  coming,  like  an 
avalanche,  upon  Hartsdale.  The  railway  had  brought 
so  many  strangers  to  the  spot,  that  its  '  capability ' 
and  '  resources '  were  perceived  and  acknowledged. 
It  was  thought  a  pity  that  the  clear  and  rapid  stream 
which  flowed  like  a  girdle  half  round  its  sheltering 
hills,  should  sink  into  the  navigable  river,  which,  nearer 
to  the  ocean,  it  fed,  without  fulfilling  some  useful  des- 
tiny— something  more  important,  if  less  poetical,  than 
laving  the  graceful  willows  that  overhung  its  waters. 
In  fact,  rumor  said  that  a  great  capitalist  was  in  treaty 


140  ENi&USH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

for  some  land,  and  that  a  paper-mill  would  be  erected 
in  the  valley.  The  idea  of  a  newspaper  to  support 
what  seemed  the  tottering  interests  of  Hartsdale,  was 
certainly  a  bold  one,  and  its  establishment  was  a  proof 
what  great  things  determined  perseverance  may  accom- 
plish. Mr.  Elliot  was  the  apothecary  of  the  place,  but 
fortunately  for  him  he  possessed  some  private  property, 
for  really  the  Hartsdalians  were  so  remarkably  healthy 
that,  otherwise,  it  is  very  probable  his  gentle  wife  and 
rosy  children  would  have  fared  something  worse  than 
they  did.  Fortunate,  too,  was  it  in  another  sense  ;  for 
his  labors  were  so  light,  that  they  afforded  him  abun- 
dant leisure  for  the  cultivation  of  a  literary  taste, 
which  it  was  said  had  descended  to  him  thus : —  His 
grandfather  had,  in  the  brilliant  days  of  his  contem- 
porary Hayley,  contributed  verses  to  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine,  which  same  effusions,  though  published 
anonymously,  were  registered  in  the  family  archives 
as  his;  albeit  certain  critics  of  the  time  had  attributed 
them  to  the  immortal  bard  before  mentioned.  His  im- 
mediate progenitor  had  once  had  the  honor  of  dining 
in  company  with  Byron  —  had  even  spoken  to  and 
shaken  hands  with  him.  Whereon  it  was  supposed  he 
took  the  infection  of  poesy ;  for  immediately  on  his 
his  return  home,  he,  being  very  much  in  love  with 
the  lady  who  ultimately  became  Mr.  Elliot's  honored 
mamma,  did  indite  to  her  sundry  verses  or  stanzas, 
which  were  deemed  in  themselves  so  admirable,  and 
every  way  worthy  of  preservation,  that  they  were,  on 
the  occasion  of  the  marriage,  which  took  place  soon 
afterwards,  placed  beside  the  celebrated  printed  ex- 
tracts from  the  Gentleman's  Magazine.    In  the  present 


THE    HARTSDALE    VINDICATOR.  Ml 

Mr.  Elliot  the  propensity  had  been  more  strongly  and 
decidedly  developed  ;  he  had  been  a  poet  from  his 
youth  ;  was  quite  accustomed  to  see  himself  in  print ; 
had  thrice  sent  verses  to  the  very  editors  who  now 
treated  his  prose  communications  with  so  much  neg- 
lect, which  verses  had  been  by  them  promoted  to  a 
place  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  their  respective  journals  ; 
and  had  absolutely  published  a  pamphlet  on  some  po- 
litical topic  —  I  forget  what  —  in  which  he  took  great 
interest. 

It  was  now  discovered  that  Mr.  Elliot  must  have 
been  intended  by  nature  for  a  newspaper  editor,  an 
opinion  in  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  was  not 
slow  to  join.  And  yet  what  a  mighty  weight  of  busi- 
ness fell  on  his  shoulders !  What  consultations,  what 
meetings,  what  tea-parties  were  there,  before  even  a 
name  could  be  decided  on !  At  last,  and  by  almost 
universal  consent,  'The  Hartsdale  Vindicator'  was 
adopted  as  a  title  that  would  express  the  champion- 
ship, which  was  undertaken  most  completely.  But 
when  it  was  known  to  all  the  active  spirits  of  the 
place,  and  to  at  least  two-thirds  of  the  Hartsdalians  in 
general,  that  Mr.  Elliot  was  self-appointed  to  the  cares 
and  difficulties  of  editing  '  their  paper,'  it  all  at  once 
occurred  to  him  that  an  air  of  mystery  was  customary 
in  these  important  literary  offices.  The  majestic  edi- 
torial WE  ought  to  be  a  concealing  visor,  as  well  as  an 
Achilles'  shield,  from  behind  which  the  champion 
should  hurl  the  arrows  of  honest  indignation.  Mr. 
Elliot  knew  himself  to  be  but  mortal :  how  could  he 
be  sure  to  resist  the  beseechings  of  friends,  or  the 
workings  of  party  interests,  if  his  privacy  were  to  be 


142  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

invaded  by  open  petitions  ?  How  could  he  anathe- 
mathize  a  railway,  when  his  dearest  friend  confided  to 
him  that  he  held  many  shares  therein  ?  How  could 
he  utterly  extinguish  the  spreading  light  of  a  new 
book,  on  the  title-page  of  which  appeared  his  name, 
*  with  the  author's  kindest  regards  ? '  It  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  No,  the  strictest  incognito  must  be 
preserved  ;  and  forthwith  the  editor  of  the  Vindicator 
was  spoken  of  as  a  mysterious  shade :  indeed  hints 
were  thrown  out  (the  Hartsdalians  would  not  have 
told  a  downright  fib  for  the  world)  of  two  or  three  of 
these  incorporeal  personages  being  rolled  into  one.  It 
was  almost,  if  not  altogether  impossible,  they  said, 
that  one  person  could  manage  such  an  affair.  A 
variety  of  style  was  indispensable.  Departments  of 
politics,  literature,  science,  and  art,  were  spoken  about 
as  things  requiring  each  an  Atlas  shoulder  for  its  sup- 
port; and  any  confirmation  of  another's  opinion  beyond 
the  nod  or  the  shake  of  a  head,  was  looked  upon  as 
an  act  of  high  treason.  Of  course  there  was  a  little 
knot,  including  the  Misses  Gunning,  Major  Stukely, 
and  Louisa  Somers,  who  owned  to  each  other  that 
they  knew  all  about  it. 

The  directing  mental  influence  being  thus  decided 
on,  and  contributions  of  various  sorts  having  been 
received,  and  accepted  or  rejected  with  due  forms  and 
proper  courtesy,  some  duller  and  more  matter-of-fact 
details  came  under  discussion.  As  the  little  knot  in- 
cluded the  chief  '  proprietors '  of  the  work,  they  were 
consulted  on  the  size  of  the  projected  paper,  and  the 
manner  of  printing  it.  One  timid  spirit  suggested  that 
it  should  be  printed  at  the  cathedral  city,  which  was  the 


THE    HARTSDALE    VINDICATOR.  143 

capital  of  the  county  ;  but  his  single  voice  was  drowned 
in  the  exclamations  of  disapprobation  which  escaped 
from  the  others,  at  a  suggestion  so  derogatory  to  the 
proper  dignity  of  all.  The  circumstance  of  Hartsdale 
not  possessing  a  printing-press  within  the  circle  of  its 
entire  domain,  was  one  of  no  importance  ;  or  rather, 
such  a  fact  brought  to  light  was  only  a  reason  they 
should  more  quickly  rid  themselves  of  a  reproach  so 
suggestive  of  barbaric  darkness.  And  I  do  not  think 
the  community  will  easily  forget  the  day  on  which  the 
carrier's  cart  brought  in  the  dingy  apparatus  —  a 
second-hand  press,  which  had  seen  considerable  ser- 
vice —  whose  destiny  it  was  to  usher  forth  the  first 
number  of  the  glorious  Vindicator.  Old  and  young, 
rich  and  poor,  rushed  forth  to  get  a  peep  at  it ;  and, 
although  the  bells  were  not  set  ringing,  I  know  many 
persons  thought  the  omission  very  culpable. 

The  first  number  at  length  appeared,  in  all  the  im- 
portance of  eight  pages,  three  columns  each.  The  title 
was  printed  on  a  flourishing  scroll,  and  beneath  it  was 
seen  a  Shakspere  motto.  The  leading  article  treated 
►  temperately  but  firmly  on  the  injuries  the  Hartsdalians 
had  endured,  were  sufl^ering,  and  were  likely  to  receive, 
from  divers  daring  intruders  on  their  rights  and  privi 
leges.  The  local  intelligence,  on  which  considerable 
pains  had  been  bestowed,  was  of  a  fair  average  quality, 
and  that  was  all  that  could  be  expected.  Louisa 
Somers  —  who  would  not  write  one  line  in  opposition 
to  what  she  felt  were  coming  improvements,  but  who 
dared  not  yet  become  their  defender,  knowing  well  that 
to  attack  prejudices  violently  is  the  way  to  strengthen 
them  —  had  contributed  an  amusing  column  of  gossip 


144  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

about  a  recent  visit  to  the  metropolis,  and  which  every 
body  who  was  not  in  the  secret,  attributed  to  a  London 
correspondent ;  and  somebody  else  had  written  a  pun- 
ning poem  on  the  Ruin  of  the  County,  taking  for  his 
text  certain  fragments  of  brick  and  stone,  said  to  be  the 
Remains  of  an  ancient  castle,  but  turning  the  word  with 
punsterial  dexterity  to  the  miseries  which  threatened 
their  hearths  and  homes.  Altogether,  the  Hartsdale 
Vindicator  was  pronounced  a  neat  and  interesting 
paper.  A  copy  was  sent  to  Sir  George,  the  member, 
who  instantly  subscribed  for  a  twelvemonth's  supply ; 
and  the  early  numbers  went  off  capitally,  for  most  of 
the  Hartsdalians  took  several  to  send  to  distant  friends. 
If  the  truth  must  be  owned,  however,  the  sale  was  not 
such  as  to  promise  an  increase  of  revenue  to  the  pro- 
prietors ;  and  though  friends  flattered,  strangers  often 
applauded,  and  foes  at  any  rate  were  silent,  there  were 
drawbacks  on  the  dignity  of  proprietorship  and  the  joys 
of  editorial  authority.  The  interval  of  a  month  be- 
tween the  numbers  was  a  long  one,  and  mischief  of  a 
grave  kind  was  often  done  before  the  Vindicator  had 
an  opportunity  of  raising  its  voice  in  defence  of  good» 
old  customs.  Excavations  were  made,  and  lines  laid 
down,  with  alarming  rapidity;  a  tall  red  chimney  was 
already  showing  itself,  seeming,  at  a  little  distance,  to 
grow  up  foot  by  foot  from  the  rich  foliage  which 
skirted  the  river  ;  till  it  was  soon  evident  that,  before 
the  end  of  the  next  summer,  the  paper-mills  would  be 
in  full  operation. 

All  looked  on  with  terror  and  dismay,  except  Louisa 
Somers,  the  curate's  sister,  who  ventured  sometimes  to 
own  she  thought  it  possible  much  good  might  arise 


THE    HARTSDALE   VINDICATOH.  145 

from  the  seeming  evil.  But  then  Louisa  was  not  a 
Hartsdalian  born  or  bred,  and  so  her  eccentric  notions 
were  looked  upon  with  some  leniency.  And  yet  she 
must  have  loved  Hartsdale  very  much,  I  think  ;  and 
certainly  the  poor  of  the  place  loved  her  most  dearly, 
notwithstanding  her  heterodox  opinions.  Possessed  of 
a  small  fortune,  just  enough  for  lady-like  independence, 
and  no  more,  she  preferred  the  useful  life  she  fashioned 
for  herself,  as  mistress  of  her  brother's  quiet  home,  to 
all  the  vanities  and  vexations  she  might  have  found 
amid  the  gaieties  of  the  metropolis,  where  the  remain- 
der of  the  family  resided.  But  she  was  one  of  those 
young  women,  to  whose  lists  I  would  fondly  hope  each 
year  adds  many,  who  believe  that,  whether  high  or- 
low  their  station,  they  have  duties  to  perform  in  the 
world  apart  from  mere  selfish  gratifications,  and  who- 
would  blush  to  declare  what  I  have  twice  heard  gravely 
said,  '  I  have  only  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  amuse 
myself  all  day ! '  Louisa  found  something  sweeter 
than  amusement  in  the  performance  of  the  active  duties 
she  had  marked  out  for  herself,  or  perhaps,  more  prop- 
erly speaking,  had  fallen  into.  She  had  made  the 
great  discovery,  that  it  is  truer  benevolence  to  assist 
the  poor  to  help  themselves,  than  to  bestow  on  them 
gold  and  silver ;  and  though  some  people  thought  it  a 
great  inconsistency,  the  fact  remains,  that  she  would 
often  give  out  dresses  of  her  own  to  be  made  by  the 
chief  dress-maker  of  Hartsdale,  at  the  very  time  that 
she  was  devoting  morning  after  morning  to  patiently 
instructing  the  children  of  the  poor  in  the  mysteries  of 
the  needle  and  the  thimble,  in  which  she  was  a  great 
adept.  Not  that  she  neglected  to  perform  the  Christian 
10 


146  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

duties  of  visiting  the  sick  and  feeding  the  hungry,  but 
her  chief  aim  in  all  her  exertions  was  to  instruct  the 
young,  and  urge  them  to  habits  of  self-dependence. 
And,  alas!  to  own  the  truth,  the  poor  of  Hartsdale 
were  very  numerous  and  very  wretched  ;  they  were 
of  that  low  class  with  whom  beggary  is  held  to  be  no 
shame. 

'  And,  Martha,'  said  Miss  Somers  one  morning  to  her 
servant,  as,  with  only  a  garden  bonnet  to  shade  her 
from  the  sun,  and  wearing  a  simple  morning  dress, 
which  nevertheless  was  anything  but  unbecoming,  she 
stood  in  the  garden  opposite  the  open  laundry  window, . 
— '  Martha,  I  have  promised  the  widow  Forster's  girls 
that  they  shall  have  the  benefit  of  seeing  you  iron  to- 
day. You  know  you  are  the  best  clear-starcher  in  the 
town,  and  I  dare  say  they  will  be  here  directly.  I  had 
to  bribe  them,  it  is  true,  by  offering  to  pay  them  for 
their  assistance  ;  but  take  care  you  let  them  touch  only 
such  things  as  they  cannot  spoil.  Poor  things,  they 
are  sadly ' 

But  at  this  moment  Louisa  stopped,  for,  happening 
to  turn, round,  she  perceived  a  gentleman,  a  stranger, 
just  at  her  elbow. 

'Your  pardon.  Madam,  for  this  intrusion,'  he  ex- 
claimed, removing  his  hat  with  an  air  of  perfect  good- 
breeding  ;  '  but  as  neither  my  groom  nor  I  could 
discover  the  bell,  I  have  left  my  horse  with  him,  and 
ventured  to  enter  at  a  side-gate  which  I  found  open. 
I  have  the  honor  of  bearing  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
Mr.  Somers,'  he  added,  '  and  feel  almost  sure  that  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  addressing  his  sister.' 

Miss  Somers  led  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  which 


THE  HARTSDALE  VINDICATOR.  147 

in  the  curate's  cottage  was  not  very  distant  from  the 
laundry,  but  where  books,  drawings,  and  musical  in- 
struments, proclaimed  that  the  young  mistress  found 
time  to  cultivate  the  refinements  of  life,  as  well  as  dis- 
charge its  useful  active  offices.  The  stranger  was  Mr. 
Percival,  who  had  recently  purchased  the  land  by  the 
water's  edge,  and  was  erecting  paper-mills  thereon. 
Louisa  was  not  at  all  alarmed  at  her  visitor,  not  even 
surprised  to  find  him  a  handsome  and  very  agreeable 
person  ;  though  it  is  pretty  certain  the  Hartsdalians  in 
general  entertained  much  such  a  notion  of  him  as  chil- 
dren deeply  read  in  fairy  tales  may  be  supposed  to  do 
of  an  ogre. 

'  From  the  few  words  I  accidentally  overheard,'  said 
Mr.  Percival,  after  chatting  for  a  while  on  several  more 
general  topics,  '  I  feel  sure  that  in  Miss  Somers  I  shall 
find  no  opponent  to  my  views  and  wishes.  You  have 
discovered  that  the  mere  donation  of  money  and  food 
to  the  poor  is  but  one  way  to  increase  pauperism,  by 
destroying  all  feelings  of  self-respect  and  self-reliance. 
I  foresee  that  you,  madam,'  he  added  with  a  smile, '  will 
not  think  it  harder  for  a  strong  girl  to  fold  or  smooth 
paper  for  ten  or  twelve  hours  a  day,  than  for  her  to 
walk  half  a  dozen  miles  to  some  great  house  and  back 
again  in  search  of  the  refuse  of  the  larder;  and  it 
may  even  occur  to  you  that  the  meal  honestly  earned 
will  in  a  very  little  time  seem  much  the  sweeter  of  the 
two.' 

'  I  do  think  so,'  replied  Louisa ;  '  but  I  believe  we 
must  act  by  the  poor  of  Hartsdale  in  the  same  manner 
as  it  is  prudent  to  do  with  the  higher  classes  of  its 
inhabitants  —  we  must  let  them  perceive  the  advan- 


148  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

tages  of  these  coming  changes  themselves,  rather  than 
reiterate  them  from  day  to  day.  A  prejudice  is  like 
a  porcupine,  which  only  bristles  up  the  more  it  is 
attacked.' 

Mr.  Percival  smiled  at  the  simile,  but  heartily  agreed 
with  Louisa. 

In  short,  after  a  somewhat  lengthened  morning  visit, 
they  parted,  mutually  pleased  with  each  other  ;  he  re- 
joicing that  he  had  found  one  Hartsdalian  —  and  that 
the  one  of  all  others  the  most  popular  among  the  poor 
—  with  liberal  and  enlightened  views,  and  she  perceiv- 
ing that,  though  a  Revolution  was  at  hand,  it  must,  from 
its  nature,  prove  an  entire  Reformation. 

The  ensuing  summer  passed  rapidly  away,  during 
which  time  the  paper-works  were  completed,  and 
operations  commenced  therein  ;  although  the  poor  of 
the  place,  so  newly  startled  from  the  sort  of  lethargy 
which  had  fallen  on  them,  had  not  yet  decided  whether 
work  was  good  for  them  or  not.  During  this  summer 
the  monthly  numbers  of  the  Vindicator  had  duly  ap- 
peared ;  yet  it  was  remarkable  that  its  violent  party 
spirit  was  somewhat  tamed  —  at  any  rate,  the  editor 
had  doubts  if,  after  all,  the  mill  might  not  prove  a  most 
opportune  relief  to  the  working  classes.  Advertise- 
ments connected  with  the  railway  crept  in,  affording 
a  curious  illustration  of  expanding  usefulness.  But 
among  all  the  doings  of  that  summer,  perhaps  not  the 
least  important  to  the  Hartsdale  community  was  the 
fact,  that  Mr.  Percival  had  become  a  frequent  and  most 
intimate  visitor  at  the  curate's  cottage  ;  and  although  it 
is  quite  certain  he  had  the  highest  esteem  and  respect 
for  Louisa's  brother,  it  is  equally  true,  what  the  Harts- 


THE    HARTSDALE    VINDICATOR.  149 

dalians  had  sometimes  suspected,  that  he  entertained 
yet  warmer  feelings  for  Louisa  herself.  To  own  the 
truth,  the  time  appointed  for  their  marriage  was  draw- 
ing near  —  a  circumstance  which  will  account  most 
satisfactorily  for  the  unrestrained  confidence  now  ex- 
isting between  them. 

They  were  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  cottage,  the 
scene  of  their  first  interesting  conversation.  Louisa 
was  seated  near  the  window,  with  the  last  number  of 
the  Hartsdale  Vindicator  in  her  hand,  and  Mr.  Percival 
was  leaning  over  her  chair,  reading  some  paragraph 
with  her.  Both  smiled  as  their  eyes  met  a  moment 
afterwards. 

'  You  know  I  have  discovered  you  are  quite  a  literary 
lady,'  exclaimed  Mr.  Percival ;  '  so  tell  me,  Louisa  dear, 
did  you  send  that  paragraph  yourself?* 

'  Vanity !  Do  you  suppose  I  should  praise  you  so 
much  ?  '  she  replied  archly  ;  but  added  in  a  moment, 
'  Really  and  truly  I  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  but 
I  told  you  long  ago  the  worthy  editor  was  coming  round 
to  our  opinion  of  things  in  general ;  and  here  he  shows 
himself  a  wise  and  brave  man,  by  owning  he  has  been 
in  the  wrong.  1  only  hope  this  evident  change  in  the 
Hartsdale  politics  may  increase  the  sale  of  the  paper, 
and  so  make  up  for  past  losses.' 

'  Have  they  really  lost  so  much  by  it .'' '  asked  Mr. 
Percival,  with  evident  interest. 

'  Much  is  such  a  comparative  word,  I  hardly  know 
how  to  answer  the  question  ;  especially  to  you  who,  in 
all  your  concerns,  have  to  speak  of  tens  of  thousands 
rather  than  tens  of  pounds.' 

'  Ay,  but  tens  of  pounds  are  often  as  important  in 


150  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

small  undertakings  as  tens  of  thousands  are  in  great 
ones.  t)o  you  know,  I  have  sometimes  thought  of 
buying  the  Hartsdale  Vindicator,  employing  a  first-rate 
editor  to  conduct  it,  and  make  it  what  we  really  want, 
an  important  literary  organ.  Do  you  think  this  could 
be  done  ?  Do  you  believe  the  proprietors  would  sell  it, 
or  sell  the  right  of  conducting  it .''  And,  above  all,  do 
you  think  this  generous  amateur  editor  could  be  per- 
suaded to  lay  down  his  wand  of  office  .?' 

'  I  am  certain  he  would  be  but  too  delighted  to  do 
it,'  exclaimed  Louisa;  '  for  he  owned  to  me  the  other 
day  that  it  cost  him  much  time  and  labor,  and  inter- 
fered sadly  with  his  professional  duties,  which  are 
very  much* on  the  increase  since  all  the  new  villas  are 
inhabited,  and  the  railway  enables  him  to  visit  several 
old  patients  who  have  removed.  Dear  Walter,'  she 
added  with  pride  and  animation,  '  you  are  really  the 
good  angel  of  the  place  ! ' 

'  My  angelic  doings  are  of  a  very  matter-of-fact 
mundane  description,'  he  replied  laughing ;  '  but  you 
know  I  have  some  deep  obligations  to  the  Hartsdalians, 
since  I  take  their  best  and  wisest  all  to  myself.' 

•  Her  who  has  been  a  traitor  in  the  camp  all  along, 
you  mean,'  she  said,  smiling;  'did  I  not  encourage 
the  Vindicator  at  first,  only  because  I  knew  that  the 
more  affairs  were  investigated,  the  more  would  the 
true  interests  of  the  place  be  discovered  ?  If  it  could 
have  been  shown  that  the  old  state  of  things  was  the 
better  one,  I  would  have  owned  myself  in  error  —  as 
now  some  of  our  old  friends  have  been  brave  enough 
to  do.' 


THE    HARTSDALE    VINDICATOK,  151 

'  And  it  is  for  this  very  prudence  that  you  are  the 
wisest,'  repeated  Mr.  Percival. 

Gladly  did  the  proprietors  of  the  Vindicator  dispose 
of  their  shares  to  the  great  capitalist,  especially  as  his 
offer  was  so  liberal  that  it  much  more  than  remunerated 
them  for  their  temporary  loss.  Behold,  too,  their  pride 
in  the  first  number  brought  out  by  the  new  potentate. 
It  had  grown  to  double  its  former  size,  and  was  to  be 
published  weekly  :  in  fact,  in  outward  appearance  and 
absolute  literary  importance,  it  now  competed  with  the 
County  Herald  itself —  that  insolent  rival,  that  had  not 
even  deigned  to  notice  its  former  existence  ?  No  one, 
however,  spoke  of  the  early,  modest  Vindicator  with 
contempt ;  on  the  contrary,  its  double-sheeted  offspring 
alluded  in  the  most  respectful  terms  to  the  service  it 
had  rendered  the  entire  county,  and  the  skill  and  taste 
with  which  it  had  been  conducted  ;  and  this  was  no 
more  than  truth,  for  its  unpretending  columns,  devoted 
to  subjects  of  local  interest,  had  made  the  history,  the 
beauties,  and  the  advantages  of  the  valley  more  exten- 
sively known  than  would  have  been  likely  to  be  the 
case  from  any  other  means.  The  consequence  was, 
that  capital  was  brought  into  the  neighborhood,  which, 
distributed  in  wages  amongst  the  poor,  was  exactly,  in 
its  results,  like  a  fertilizing  stream  to  some  arid  desert. 
The  temporary  inconveniences  inevitable  from  a  state 
of  transition  are  already  nearly  forgotten,  or  remem- 
bered only  to  provoke  a  smile.  As  an  omnibus  runs 
six  times  a  day  to  the  railway  station,  people  have 
ceased  to  miss  the  stages.  It  is  true  the  White  Hart 
Inn  is  shut  up,  but  very  much  more  in  consequence  of 
a  temperance  movement  among  the  poor,  than  because 


152  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

the  glories  of  the  Telegraph  have  departed  ;  an  event 
most  significant  of  the  happy  moral  elevation  of  the 
humbler  classes. 

The  Misses  Gunning  are  restored  to  the  undisputed 
possession  of  their  carriage  ;  and,  as  if  to  make  amends 
for  the  trials  to  which  poor  Peter  was  subjected,  he  is 
now  relieved  from  all  floricultural  duties,  since  his  mis- 
tresses, having  been  tempted  to  invest  some  property 
in  railway  shares,  find  an  increase  in  their  income, 
which  permits  them  to  add  a  gardener  to  their  estab- 
lishment. Major  Stukely  was  the  last  to  hold  out  for 
good  old  customs  ;  but  having  been  twice  detected  in 
walking  to  the  station  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  seeing 
the  train  come  up,  he  owned  there  was  something  very 
exciting  and  interesting  in  the  contemplation  of  such 
stupendous  undertakings  —  a  confession  which  was 
taken  on  all  hands  as.  acknowledgment  of  a  defeat. 
In  fact,  Hartsdale  bids  fair  to  become  a  considerable 
and  important  place,  and  to  be  as  much  distinguished 
for  its  intelligence,  activity,  wealth,  and  general  pros- 
perity, as  it  was  in  the  '  olden  time  '  for  the  wretched- 
ness and  ignorance  of  its  poor,  and  the  primitive 
condition  of  its  general  inhabitants.  It  is  almost  be- 
yond the  power  of  art  to  destroy  the  features  of  a 
really  beautiful  country ;  and  emotions  arise  in  con- 
templating the  advancement  of  mankind,  it  may  be  of 
a  loftier  kind  than  those  which  kindle  at  the  sight  even 
of  the  most  exquisite  scenery. 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

'  The  tempter,  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most  ? ' 

Shaespesk.    Measure  for  Measure. 

CHAPTER  I. 

It  was  an  exceedingly  comfortable  dining-room,  in 
an  exceedingly  comfortable  house.  The  month  was 
January,  and  the  air  was  so  clear  and  frosty,  that  every 
step  which  passed  seemed  to  ring  upon  the  pavement. 
Thick  warm  curtains,  however,  excluded  all  draught, 
and  the  brightest  of  fires  blazed  in  the  polished  grate  ; 
while  the  clear  light  of  a  pendant  lamp  shone  upon 
the  dessert  of  chestnuts,  in  their  snowy  napkin,  and 
golden  oranges.  Amber  and  ruby-tinted  wines  spar- 
kled through  the  rich  glass  which  held  them  ;  but  the 
'  comfortable  '  party  were  only  a  trio  —  Mr,  and  Mrs. 
Dixon,  and  their  son.  They  were  people  whom  the 
world  had  used  very  kindly,  who  had  never  had  a  real 
trouble  in  their  lives.  No  doubt  they  had  imagined 
a  few ;  and  imaginary  sorrows  differ  from  real  ones, 
I  believe,  chiefly  in  this  —  that  they  teach  nothing, 
unless,  indeed,  their  indulgence  teach  and  strengthen 
selfishness. 

Mr.  Dixon  was  a  fine-looking  man,  of  about  fifty, 


154  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

with  rather  a  pleasing  expression  of  countenance.  He 
was  often  visited  by  good,  kind  impulses,  but  a  certain 
indecision  of  character  had  made  him  fall  under  the 
rule  of  his  partner  early  in  their  married  life  ;  and  the 
instances,  during  twenty-five  years,  in  which  his  best 
inclinations  had  been  checked,  were  beyond  all  num- 
bering. The  lady,  who  was  about  five  years  his  junior, 
bore  every  trace  of  having  been  a  pretty  woman, 
though  on  the  petite  scale.  Yet  there  were  people 
who  did  not  like  her  face  ;  and  certainly,  bright  as  her 
eyes  were,  they  put  you  in  mind  of  March  sunshine, 
with  an  east  wind  blowing  all  the  time.  Her  lips  were 
thin,  and  she  had  a  trick  of  smiling,  and  showing  her 
white  teeth  very  often,  even  when  she  said  the  most 
disagreeable  things.  Richard  Dixon,  the  son,  bore 
a  strong  resemblance  to  his  mother ;  though,  if  the 
mouth  were  indicative  of  rather  more  sentiment  than 
she  possessed,  it  also  betrayed  more  sensuality. 

'  This  is  a  very  serious  charge,  my  dear,'  said  Mr. 
Dixon,  putting  down  the  glass  he  had  raised  half-way 
to  his  lips  ;  '  are  you  sure  there  is  no  mistake  ?  ' 

'  Quite  sure,'  replied  the  lady  —  'quite  certain  Mary 
must  have  taken  it.  I  put  the  piece  of  lace  at  the  top 
of  the  drawer,  and  the  key  was  never  out  of  my  pos- 
session, except  when  I  intrusted  it  to  her.' 

'  We  never  had  a  servant  I  should  so  little  have 
suspected,'  returned  Mr.  Dixon. 

'  Nor  I  either,'  said  the  son  ;  '  and  she  is,  out-and- 
out,  the  best  housemaid  we  ever  had  —  at  least,  the 
best  that  ever  has  been  willing  to  stay.' 

Truth  always  hits  hard,  and  the  color  rose  to  Mrs. 
Dixon's  cheek.      She  was   one  of  those   ladies  who 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.      155 

cannot '  keep  their  servants.'  'Then  bad  is  the  best, 
I  am  sure,'  she  exclaimed  angrily ;  '  and  for  my  part 
I  am  very  glad  she  is  going.' 

'  And  I  am  very  sorry,'  said  her  husband.  '  But 
why  did  you  not  tell  me  a  month  ago  that  you  had 
given  her  warning,  instead  of  leaving  it  in  this  way  to 
the  last  moment  ?  ' 

'Really  I  cannot  see,  Mr.  Dixon,  what  you  have  to 
do  with  these  arrangements.  I  mention  the  circum- 
stance now,  because  the  girl  is  leaving  to-night,  and 
because  you  will  see  a  strange  face  to-morrow,  and 
would  wish  to  know  all  about  it.' 

'  But  what  did  she  say,  when  you  accused  her  of 
theft  ? ' 

'  Accused  her !  You  don't  suppose  I  should  have 
done  such  a  foolish  thing.  A  pretty  scene  there  would 
have  been.  I  know  the  fact,  and  that  is  enough  ; 
you  don't  believe  I  should  have  got  back  the  lace,  do 
you .''  ' 

'  But  justice,  my  dear,  justice ;  surely  you  should 
tell  her  your  suspicions.' 

'  Oh !  now  that  I  have  engaged  another  servant  — 
now  that  she  is  going,  you  can  tell  her  if  you  like. 
But  I  don't  see,  myself,  what  use  it  is.  She  is  sure  to 
deny  it,  and  then  there  will  be  a  scene — and  I  hate 
scenes  as  much  as  you  do.' 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  slight  tap  at  the  parlor- 
door,  and,  obedient  to  the  '  come  in '  of  Mr.  Dixon, 
the  discarded  Mary  entered.  She  was  a  gentle-looking 
girl,  of  about  twenty,  attired  in  a  dark  cloak  and  straw 
bonnet.  She  came  to  take  a  dutiful  leave  of  the  family, 
and  to  ask  a  question  which  seemed  not  to  have  oc- 


156  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

curred  to  the  party  before.  In  engaging  herself  with 
any  future  mistress,  and  referring  to  Mrs.  Dixon  for  a 
*  character,'  what  was  she  to  give  as  the  reason  that 
she  was  discharged  ? 

So  innocent,  so  interesting  did  Mary  look — the  tears 
just  starting  to  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  leaving  the 
home  of  many  months,  and  her  cheek  slightly  flushed 
—  that  neither  of  the  gentlemen  could  believe  her 
guilty.  But  Mrs.  Dixon  was  in  the  habit  of  engaging 
and  discharging  about  a  dozen  servants  a  year,  of  one 
sort  or  another,  and  was  quite  hardened  against  '  ap- 
pearances.' ► 

Mr.  Dixon  evaded  an  immediate  answer  to  Mary's 
question,  by  asking  her  whither  she  was  going  ?  ' 

'  I  am  going  into  a  lodging.  Sir.' 

'  That  is  a  pity  :  have  you  no  friends  to  stay  with  ?  ' 

'  My  friends  are  all  in  Wiltshire,'  said  the  girl,  with 
a  sigh  ;  '  and  besides  that  it  would  cost  me  a  great  deal 
of  money  to  go  to  them.  I  would  rather  look  out  for  a 
place  than  make  a  holiday.' 

'  Your  wages  which  I  sent  down  to  you,  were  quite 
right,  I  believe  ?  '  said  Mrs.  Dixon,  with  an  icy  dignity 
that  was  intended  to  close  the  conference. 

'  Quite  right,  thank  you,  ma'am,'  replied  Mary, 
with  a  courtesy  ;  '  but,  if  you  please,  when  I  go  after 
a  place,  what  shall  I  say  was  the  reason  you  dis- 
charged me  ? ' 

'  I  should  think  your  own  conscience  must  tell  you,' 
replied  the  lady,  smoothing  her  braided  hair  with  her 
hand,  as  she  had  a  trick  of  doing  when  she  was 
growing  angry.  Poor  Mary  turned  pale  at  these 
words,   indefinite  as    they   were,   and   could  hardly 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.      157 

murmur  —  'Tell  me,  oh!  tell  me,  what  is  it  I  have 
done  ? ' 

Her  change  of  color  was  to  Mrs.  Dixon  evidence 
of  guilt ;  and  with  a  sort  of  horrible  satisfaction  at 
this  proof  (to  her)  that  she  was  right,  the  lady  charged 
the  poor  girl  with  the  theft  which  she  had  just  mentioned 
to  her  husband.  It  was,  indeed,  a  scene  which  follow- 
ed —  a  very  piteous  one.  Mary  uttered  but  a  few 
words  of  brief  and  emphatic  denial  —  far  removed 
from  the  loud  asseverations  which  the  guilty  can  some- 
times deliver.  Tears  seemed  driven  back  to  her  heart ; 
and  as  she  stood  for  a  moment  with  clasped  hands  and 
rigid  features,  she  looked  like  a  statue  of  woe.  Rich- 
ard Dixon  was  by  no  means  unmoved.  He  had  his 
own  reasons  for  believing  her  a  girl  of  good  principles. 
Like  many  other  —  more  thoughtless  perhaps,  than 
heartless — young  men,  he  never  disguised  his  admi- 
ration of  beauty  to  the  object,  even  if  the  revealing  it 
bordered  on  insult.  And  he  remembered  that  Mary 
had  always  received  his  idle  compliments  with  a  dig- 
nity that  repelled  further  rudeness,  and  with  a  deport- 
ment that  he  should  have  admired  in  a  sister.  He 
placed  a  chair  near  Mary,  and  begged  her  to  be  seated  ; 
but  absorbed  in  her  own  misery,  she  took  no  notice  of 
the  attention.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Dixon  had  poured  out 
a  glass  of  wine,  and  offered  it  to  her  exclaiming  — '  I 
must  hope  there  is  some  mistake.  I  cannot  believe  this 
of  you.' 

The  word  and  act  of  kindness  seemed  to  melt  the 
statue,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  But  Mrs.  Dixon  felt 
this  would  never  do.  It  was  time  now  for  her  to  play 
a  more  interesting  part  in  the  drama,  and  applying 


168  ENGLISH   TALES    AND   SKETCHES. 

her  filmy  lace-bordered  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  she 
leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  sobbed  out  reproaches  to 
her  husband  for  his  cruelty  in  doubting  her  word. 
Poor  man  !  what  could  he  think  —  what  could  he  do  ? 
Chiefly,  I  believe,  he  resolved  never  —  never  again  — 
to  interfere  between  two  of  womankind  ;  and  hurrying 
poor  Mary  to  the  hall-door,  where  a  cab  and  her  boxes 
awaited  her,  he  put  a  sovereign  into  her  hand,  as  a 
remembrance  of  her  kind  attention  to  the  buttons  of 
his  shirts,  and  such  et  ceteras.  The  gold  dropped  from 
her  grasp,  as  she  exclaimed  — '  No,  Sir,  —  my  char- 
acter I  my  character  !  * 

Mr.  Dixon  stooped  for  the  money,  and  pressed  it 
upon  her  again  —  till,  trusting  to  his  assurances  that 
he  did  not  believe  her  guilty,  and  that  he  would  see  her 
righted,  she  consented  to  accept  it. 

It  is  a  subject  of  painful  interest  to  ask  how  the  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  female  servants  *  out  of  place,* 
in  this  palpitating  heart  —  this  great  metropolis  —  con- 
trive to  exist  for  weeks  and  even  months  together,  as 
they  do,  upon  the  scanty  savings  from  their  scanty 
wages  ?  And  plain  as  the  mity  is  of  employers  not 
to  deceive  one  another,  by  giving  an  unjust  character 
of  a  servant,  or  hiding  glaring  faults,  there. is  a  ter- 
rible responsibility  in  depriving  a  young  woman  of  a 
situation,  which  is  not,  I  fear,  generally  sufficiently 
felt.  It  seems  too  often  forgotten  that  servants  have 
peculiarities  of  temper  and  disposition  as  well  as  their 
mistresses,  and  that  she  who  would  not  suit  one  family 
might  be  admirably  adapted  to  please  another.  Surely, 
it  is  the  most  truthful,  as  well  as  the  most  humane 
plan,  in  a  mistress,  to  allude  only  to  the  moral  attributes 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.       159 

of  character  ;  judging  charitably  —  if  there  be  no 
knowledge  darker  than  doubt  —  of  the  general  acquire- 
ments. Sensible  people  may  commonly  get  on  well 
with  servants  who  speak  the  truth,  and  have  a  tolera- 
ble share  of  brains :  so  much  that  is  valuable  must 
follow  in  the  wake.  If  one  cannot  have  both,  truth  is 
even  more  precious  than  sense.  What  was  poor  Mary 
to  do,  robbed  of  her  character  for  honesty  ? 

A  day  or  two  after  her  dismissal,  she  called  upon 
Mrs.  Dixon,  re-asserting  her  innocence,  and  imploring 
her  mistress  to  give  her  such  a  character  as  would  pro- 
cure her  a  situation.  But  the  mistress  was  firm  in  her 
resolve  to  tell  the  circumstance  to  any  lady  who  might 
call  just  as  it  had  occurred.  It  would  be  tedious  to 
narrate  the  trials  of  the  friendless  girl.  How  one 
stranger  would  have  received  her  into  her  house,  but 
for  this  unfortunate  episode  revealed  by  Mrs.  Dixon  ; 
and  how,  on  Mary  defending  herself  with  tears  and 
entreaties,  the  half-convinced  lady  declared  she  would 
have  taken  her,  had  Mary  told  the  story  at  first. 
Prompted  by  this  assertion,  in  her  next  application  she 
confessed  the  suspicion  which  attached  to  her ;  but 
there  is  very  strong  esprit  de  corps  among  mistresses, 
and  they  very  seldom  think  each  other  wrong.  The 
lady  could  not  fancy  Mrs.  Dixon  had  been  mistaken. 
It  was  after  these  sorrows  that  the  thought  occurred  to 
her  of  applying  to  the  mistress  with  whom  she  had 
lived  previously  to  her  service  with  Mrs.  Dixon,  and 
who  had  discharged  her  only  in  consequence  of  reduc- 
ing her  establishment.  Alas !  she  had  left  the  neigh- 
borhood, to  reside  near  a  married  daughter;  but,  as 
they  had  paid  every  bill  with  scrupulous  exactness,  not 


160  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

one  of  the  tradespeople  could  tell  her  whither  they  had 
gone.  The  nearest  intelligence  she  could  gain  was, 
'  Somewhere  in  Kent.'  Poor  Mary  !  her  last  anchor 
of  hope  seemed  taken  from  her. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Winter  had  given  place  to  Spring  ;  but  though  the 
frost  no  longer  bleached  the  pavement,  or  crisped  all 
moisture,  and  though  the  sun  seemed  struggling  to 
warm  the  atmosphere,  there  was  a  cold  wind  which 
would  have  rendered  warm  garments  very  acceptable, 
and  which  blew  through  the  thin  shawl  of  a  young  girl, 
as  she  stood  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  talking  to  a  friend 
a  few  years  older  than  herself.  The  latter  appeared 
more  a  favorite  of  fortune  than  poor  Mary,  for  she  was 
the  shivering  girl.  Now  millionaires  can  afford  to 
dress  in  rusty  black,  and  a  great  many  of  the  sterner 
sex  are  either  careless  to  slovenliness  about  their  equip- 
ments, or  disfigure  themselves  by  a  horrible  taste  ;  but 
it  may  be  taken  as  a  general  rule,  subject  to  but  few 
exceptions,  that  women  —  especially  young  and  pretty 
ones  —  dress  as  well  as  their  means  will  permit. 
Hence  the  warmer,  richer  clothing  of  Mary's  com- 
panion proclaimed  her  better  off  in  the  world. 

'  It  must  come  to  that,  or  worse,'  said  Mary,  with  a 
shudder,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  which  shone 
with  that  strange  glassy  lustre  that  often  accompanies, 
perhaps  reveals,  intense  mental  suffering.     '  After  all. 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.      161 

as  you  say,'  she  continued,  '  it  would  not  be  a  false 
character,  for  I  never  wronged  any  one  of  a  farthing's 
worth  in  my  life.  If  it  could  be  managed  —  if  I  could 
but  get  a  place  ! ' 

'  Oh,  it  can  be  managed,  never  fear.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  1  could  not  act  the  fine  lady,  when  I  have 
acted  at  a  real  theatre  for  three  seasons,  and  done  much 
harder  things,  I  can  tell  you.  I  don't  say  but  what  I 
shall  expect  you  to  do  me  a  good  turn  some  of  these 
days,  if  I  should  want  it.' 

'What  can  I  ever  do  for  you,'  exclaimed  Mary  — 
'  you,  who  are  so  much  above  me  ! ' 

Poor  Mary  !  how  sadly  had  her  heart  been  warped 
by  Temptation,  how  sadly  must  her  self-respect  have 
been  lowered  before  she  could  have  formed  such  an 
estimate  of  herself — fallen,  or  falling,  as  she  already 
was !  Perhaps  it  were  best  not  to  inquire  what  were 
the  probable  services  this  unprincipled  woman  expected 
in  return  for  giving  the  false  character.  It  is  hardly  to 
be  supposed  that  she  had  sought  the  acquaintance  of 
the  friendless  girl  without  some  selfish  plan  or  motive. 
They  stood  talking  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  then 
walked  away  in  different  directions  :  the  elder  with 
the  confident  air  of  one  who  had  carried  herself  suc- 
cessfully through  many  schemes  of  deception ;  the 
other,  trembling  and  abashed  at  the  first  breaking  down 
of  the  barriers  of  integrity.  Oh  !  ye  thoughtless 
women  in  your  homes  of  ease  —  ye,  whose  breath  can 
give  or  take  away  reputation  —  be  merciful  in  your 
judgment  of  her,  and  pause  well  ere,  on  some  similar 
occasion,  you  drive  a  helpless  female  to  desperation. 
11 


162  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SXETCHES. 

Oh !  it  was  pitiful, 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Friend  she  had  none. 

Mary  had  no  longer  the  means  of  returning  to  her 
family  in  Wiltshire  ;  she  was  already  reduced  to  pov- 
erty's sad  extremity,  and  had  that  very  morning  con- 
veyed her  warm  cloak  to  the  safe  keeping  of  the 
pawnbroker.  Besides,  how  could  she  have  borne  to 
go  as  a  disgraced  pauper  among  the  large  poor  family 
to  which  she  belonged  r  among  those  who  had  looked 
with  such  pride  upon  their  '  sister  in  service  in 
London  ?  ' 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  her  many  griefs,  and  the 
gaunt  figure  of  absolute  Want  which  loomed  upon  her, 
and  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer,  she  had  refused 
assistance  only  the  day  before  from  her  '  young  mas- 
ter,' whom  she  had  chanced  to  meet  in  the  street,  and 
who  had  accosted  her,  apparently  with  much  sym- 
pathy. From  him  she  had  learned  that  Mrs.  Dixon 
was  as  implacable  as  ever ;  yet,  though  he  pressed 
silver,  and  even  gold,  upon  her,  let  us  be  thankful  she 
was  still  hedged  round  by  the  feelings  of  delicacy 
and  feminine  propriety,  which  forbade  her  accepting 
money  from  '  an  admirer.'  Surely,  the  world-hardened 
Tempters  do  not  always  know  the  dreadful  work  they 
are  about ! 

'  If  you  please,  ma'am,  do  you  know  of  a  place  ? ' 
was  the  inquiry  of  Mary,  about  an  hour  after  she  had 
parted  with  her  new  acquaintance.  She  had  entered 
a  respectable-looking  baker's  shop,  in  one  of  the  great 
thoroughfares. 

'  What  sort  of  a  place  } '  said  the  mistress,  a  good- 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.      163 

tempered,  good-looking  young  woman,  of  seven  or 
eight  and  twenty,  who  was  just  then  sweeping  the 
counter  with  a  hand-brush,  with  great  activity.  Mary, 
by  the  way,  had  observed  at  a  glance  that  shop,  and 
counter,  and  hand-brush,  and  all  appurtenances,  were 
what  everything  belonging  to  a  baker's  shop  should  be, 
exquisitely  clean  and  neat ;  and  that  the  mistress  her- 
self, in  her  snowy  cap,  and  light-colored  cotton  dress, 
was  a  pattern  of  neatness. 

'  I  could  take  a  housemaid's  place,  ma'am,'  replied 
Mary,  '  or  servant  of  all-work  in  a  small  family.' 

'  Lor !  I  wonder  if  you  would  suit  us  }  '  said  Mrs. 
Allen,  the  baker's  wife  ;  '  we  sent  off  our  servant  in  a 
great  huff  last  night,  and  I  have  no  one  to  do  a  stroke 
for  me,  except  the  nurse  girl,  and  she  has  enough  to  do 
with  three  children  to  mind.  Could  you  come  directly 
—  to-day,  I  mean  ? ' 

*  Yes,  ma'am,  to-day,  if  you  like.' 

Then  followed  the  ordinary  questions,  and,  of  course, 
among  them  —  'Where  did  you  live  last?' 

*  With  Mrs.  Smith,  ma'am.  No.  20, Street.' 

Alas,  alas,  poor  Mary  ! 

'  And  can  you  have  a  good  character?' 

*  I  am  sure  I  can,  ma'am.  I  only  left  because  Cap- 
tain Smith  was  obliged  to  go  with  his  ship,  and  Mrs. 
Smith  did  not  want  two  servants  any  longer.' 

'  Well,  wait  here  in  the  shop  a  bit,  while  I  go  and 
speak  to  my  husband.  James,  James,'  she  continued, 
calling  from  some  stairs  which  led  to  the  bake-house, 
'  I  waitt  you.'  And  up  there  came  a  portly-looking 
man,  with  shirt-sleeves  tucked  up,  and  his  arms  cov- 
ered above  the  elbows  with  flour  and  dough.     The 


164  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Aliens  were  a  happy  couple,  well  to  do  in  the  world, 
and  in  good  humor  with  it  and  themselves.  An  atten- 
tive listener  might  have  heard  something  about  '  tidy- 
looking  girl :  think  she'd  just  do  :  but  here  it's  Friday  : 
I  am  sure  1  never  can  get  out  for  her  character  either 
to-day  or  to-morrow.' 

'That's  a  pity,'  said  the  husband. 

'  If  we  could  but  be  sure  of  her  honesty,  1  wouldn't 
mind  taking  her,  and  then  going  for  her  character  next 
week.     What  do  you  say,  James?' 

'  My  dear,  how  can  we  be  sure  ?' 

'  She  wouldn't  be  so  stupid  as  to  say  she  could  have 
a  good  character  if  she  were  not  honest,'  replied  the 
wife,  whose  mind  seemed  veering  very  much  towards 
trying  her. 

'  That 's  true,'  exclaimed  the  baker,  as  if  a  new  light 
were  let  in  on  the  subject. 

*  Come  and  see  her,'  said  the  wife. 

There  were  two  or  three  customers  waiting  in  the 
shop,  but  during  Mrs.  Allen's  short  absence,  her  second 
child,  a  little  girl  of  about  three  years  old,  had  '  made 
friends'  with  Mary,  and  was  clinging  to  her  hand,  and 
looking  up  in  her  face,  as  if  she  were  an  old  acquaint- 
ance. It  may  be  that  this  was  the  feather  which  pleased 
the  parents,  and  turned  the  scale. 

The  feelings  with  which  Mary  learned  that  she  waa 
to  be  received  in  this  unusual  manner,  and  that  the 
falsehood  which  was  planned  would  not  be  acted  for 
three  days  to  come,  at  least,  were  something  like  those 
we  may  imagine  a  culprit  to  entertain,  when  he  mceives 
a  respite  of  his  sentence.  A  dim  hope  would  make 
itself  felt,  a  dim  hope  that  something  would  occur  to 
prevent  it  being  carried  into  execution. 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.      165 

"With  what  wonderful  activity  Mary  set  to  work,  or 
how  anxiously  she  strove  to  please,  words  cannot  easily 
tell.  But  the  Lie  was  a  haunting  Presence  that  seemed 
to  banish  even  the  hope  of  happiness.  The  honest 
baker  and  his  wife  were  evidently  well  satisfied  with 
their  new  servant.  The  advantage,  by  which  she  had 
profited,  of  living  in  a  family  belonging  to  a  higher  sta- 
tion, enabled  her  to  do  many  things  in  a  superior  way ; 
and  the  Aliens  were  people  to  appreciate  all  this. 
And  the  neat  and  nice  manner  in  which  she  served  the 
Sunday's  dinner,  of  which  a  couple  of  friends  partook, 
was  duly  commented  on.  Then  the  children  '  took  to 
her'  amazingly,  and  the  circumstance  of  her  discover- 
ing a  half  sovereign  which  had  strangely  escaped  from 
the  till,  seemed  to  give  them  the  most  perfect  confi- 
dence in  her  honesty ;  so  that,  when  on  the  afternoon 
of  Tuesday,  the  appointment  having  been  duly  made 
with  the  fictitious  Mrs.  Smith,  Mrs.  Allen  was  equip- 
ped in  a  handsome  silk  dress,  ready  to  go  '  after 
Mary's  character,'  she  almost  felt  that  it  was  a  mere 
form,  so  certain  was  she  of  the  girl's  acquirements  and 
integrity. 

This  was  a  dreadful  moment  to  Mary.  She  felt  as 
if  her  quickly-beating  heart  sent  the  blood  to  the  crown 
of  her  head  ;  and  that  the  next  instant  it  receded,  and 
left  her  ready  to  faint ;  while  all  the  events  of  her 
troubled  career  rushed  in  strange  distinctness  before 
her,  even  to  the  history  she  had  learned  of  the  baker's 
former  servant  having  been  discharged  for  telling  a 
falsehood.  But  then  he  had  said  — '  We  would  have 
forgiven  her  if  she  had  not  persisted  in  it ! ' 

By  an  uncontrollable  impulse,  as  Mrs.  Allen  was 


166  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

leaving  her  parlor,  Mary  seized  the  skirt  of  her  dress, 
and  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  her,  ex- 
claimed, amid  a  passionate  torrent  of  tears  — '  J<  is 
your  goodness  that  has  saved  me  !  Oh,  hear  me,  hear 
me ! '  And  then,  in  broken  phrases,  she  poured  out 
the  story  of  her  trials  and  temptations. 

Sad  was  it  to  see  the  altered  looks  of  her  benefac- 
tors, and  to  hear  the  cold  and  mournful  tone  in  which 
Mrs.  Allen  said — 'So,  you  have  deceived  me  after 
all :  you  would  have  cheated  me  with  a  False  Charac- 
ter; '  and  the  good  and  naturally  kind-hearted  woman 
sank  on  her  chair,  overcome  with  the  surprise. 

*  We  cannot  help  you,'  said  the  baker  sternly. 

'Mercy  —  mercy!'  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  and, 
weak  from  recent  scanty  fare  —  for  she  had  been  too 
wretched  to  eat  during  even  the  few  days  that  abun- 
dance had  been  before  her  —  she  fainted  outright. 
When  she  came  to  herself  she  was  stretched  on  a  sofa, 
with  master  and  mistress  both  leaning  over  her.  There 
was  pity  on  their  faces,  and  tears  rolled  down  Mrs. 
Allen's  cheeks.  In  loosening  her  dress,  in  their  en- 
deavors to  restore  her,  they  had  come  upon  a  packet 
of  pawnbroker's  duplicates,  the  dates  of  which,  and 
the  nature  of  the  articles  pledged,  were  a  touch- 
ing confirmation  of  her  story.  From  the  '  cornelian 
brooch,'  so  easily  dispensed  with,  to  the  necessary 
cloak,  and  a  prayer-book,  the  mournful  chain  was 
complete. 

'  We  will  not  turn  you  away,'  said  the  baker,  '  just 
yet :  we  will  try  you  a  little  longer.' 

'  Your  goodness  has  saved  me  ! '  was  all  the  stricken 
girl  could  utter. 


THE  TEMPTERS  AND  THE  TEMPTED.      167 

'  But,'  continued  he,  '  my  wife  will  go  immediately 
to  your  real  mistress,  and  hear  her  version  of  the  story. 
Certainly  your  confession  is  voluntary,  and  I  do  not 
believe  you  are  hardened  in  deception.' 

Mrs.  Allen  set  off,  and  the  distance  being  consider- 
able, she  was  gone  upwards  of  two  hours.  What  an 
eternity  they  seemed  to  the  poor  servant ! 

'  Well,  my  dear,'  exclaimed  the  baker,  when  at  last 
she  returned,  '  what  do  you  think  .?' 

'  W^hy  I  think,  James,  that  a  great  many  people  who 
call  themselves  ladies  are  no  ladies  at  all.  Would  you 
believe  it,  this  Mrs.  Dixon  has  found  the  piece  of  lace 
she  accused  the  girl  of  stealing  —  found  it  slipped  be- 
hind the  drawer,  or  something  of  the  sort ;  and  except 
for  her  own  regret  at  sending  away  a  good  servant,  I 
don't  think  she  feels  her  wickedness  a  bit.  Poor  girl, 
I  cannot  help  pitying  her.  It  was  very  wrong  to 
attempt  to  cheat  us  with  a  false  character,  but  it's  my 
belief  we  none  of  us  know  what  we  should  do  if  we 
were  sorely  tempted.  And  besides,  you  see  she  was 
not  equal  to  carrying  out  the  deception.' 

'  Let  us  keep  her,'  was  the  baker's  emphatic  re- 
joinder. 

'  Why,  I  don't  know  that  we  can,'  said  Mrs.  Allen. 
'  Mrs.  Dixon  says  she'll  take  her  back,  if  she  likes  to 
go,  for  the  lady  has  had  three  housemaids  since  she 
left,  and  you  know  it  is  a  much  grander  place  than 
ours.  At  any  rate,  she  promises  to  give  her  an  excel- 
lent character.' 

'  Did  you  tell  this  Mrs.  Dixon  about  the  intended 
false  character  ?' 

'  No,  I  didn't ;  for  I  soon  found  out  how  matters 


168  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

were,  and  I  felt  I  should  have  been  wicked  to  do  the 
girl  a  further  mischief.' 

'  Quite  right,  my  love,'  said  the  baker. 

Mary  was  called  in,  and  the  facts  related.  With 
tearful  joy,  and  amid  thanksgiving  to  Heaven,  she  im- 
plored that  her  benefactors  would  allow  her  to  stay  with 
them,  rejecting,  with  something  like  scorn,  the  idea  of 
a  'grander'  place.  Faithfully  has  she  now  served 
them  for  years  ;  and  promoted  to  the  dignity  of  shop- 
woman,  she  is  looked  upon  rather  as  a  tried  friend 
than  anything  else.  But  even  in  the  sunshine  of  hap- 
piness she  never  forgets  that  it  is  the  '  goodness,'  as 
she  calls  it,  of  the  baker  and  his  wife  which  have 
saved  her. 

Alas  for  the  rarity  ^ 

Of  Christian  Charity ! 

How   often   would  a  generous  trust  save  the   sorely 
tempted  I 


A  TALE  THAT  WAS  TOLD  TO  ME. 

'  Restore  the  Dead,  thou  Sea.' 

Miis.  Uemans. 

Amid  scenes  of  strange  adventures,  dauntless  daring, 
appalling  dangers,  and  unimagined  perils,  I  believe 
every  one,  from  the  idiosyncrasy  of  his  own  mind, 
finds  a  peculiar  interest  in  some  one  particular  range 
of  subjects ;  and  it  may  be  that  the  eagerness  with 
which  we  read  or  listen  when  such  scenes  are  de- 
scribed is  the  evidence  of  a  taste  which,  with  over- 
indulgence, would  grow  morbid,  or  of  an  enthusiasm 
quite  capable  of  becoming  extravagant.  I  confess  to 
such  a  weakness  myself.  I  can  listen  with  compara- 
tive calmness  to  the  most  exciting  narratives  of  all 
land  expeditions  and  adventures,  whether  they  include 
an  Alpine  ascent  or  an  encounter  with  banditti ;  a 
lonely  march  on  the  wild  Prairie,  or  the  passage  of  a 
caravan  across  the  scorched  and  scorching  Desert. 
But  directly  the  wanderer  lifts  his  foot  from  the  dry 
land,  and  trusts  himself  to  the  slumbering  Ocean, 
a  new  train  of  feelings  has  birth,  and  the  interest 
in  a  stranger's  safety  quickens  into  something  really 
approaching  personal  sensation. 

Let  the  red  earth  of  battle-fields  proclaim  trumpet- 
tongued  their  story,  and  the  trampled  human  clay  rise 


170        ENGLISH  TALES  AND  SKETCHES. 

up  in  judgment  to  bear  it  witness.  The  tale  is  bla- 
zoned on  history's  page  through  the  long  course  of 
the  rolling  centuries  ;  the  courage  of  Action  always, 
and  —  of  Endurance  sometimes.  But  the  glittering 
tinsel  wreath  of  glory  only  hides  the  gheistly  Moloch- 
idol  War  ;  and  1  am  dull  at  perceiving  the  subordinate 
heroism  whose  leading  spring  is  mean  ambition,  avarice 
or  hate.  Such  heroism,  too,  finds  always  a  chronicler  ; 
but  Ocean  is  for  the  most  part  the  keeper  of  its  dread 
secrets,  ^nd  only  from  the  faint  breath  which  now  and 
then  floats  across  the  waves  may  we  guess  at  the  human 
agonies  the  remorseless  waters  have  at  once  created 
and  extinguished  !  Perhaps  it  is  this  vagueness  —  the 
certainty  that  stranger  tales  remain  untold  than  any 
which  rumor  has  caught  and  echoed  —  which  lends  so 
strong  an  interest  to  stories  of  shipwreck  or  disasters 
at  sea,  appealing  to  the  unsatisfied  imagination  until  it 
aches  with  the  realization  of  the  scene.  And  yet  what 
deeds  of  self-denial  and  noble  self-devotion  are,  regis- 
tered and  stand  forth  in  their  lovely  radiance,  to 
redeem  and  vindicate  mankind  ;  alas  !  beside  those 
awful  revelations  of  brute  selfishness  to  which  it  would 
8eem  that  inferior  natures  are  reduced  in  the  hour  of 
imminent  peril !  But  this  is  a  long  introduction  to  the 
tale  that  was  told  to  me. 

There  were  more  passengers  on  board  the  good 
ship  Falcon  than  I  should  care  to  number.  Many  were 
young,  and  for  the  most  part  buoyant  with  hope,  as 
became  the  living  freight  of  the  '  outward  bound.' 

India  is  not  looked  upon  exactly  as  it  was  even 
fifteen  or  twenty  years  since.  People  are  not  quite 
sure  that  gold  is  to  be  picked  up  there  for  the  stooping, 


i 


A    TALE    THAT    WAS    TOLD   TO    ME.  171 

or  that  diamonds  are  showered  down  at  the  feet  of 
Europeans ;  but  still  there  is  a  prevalent  notion,  vague 
enough  sometimes,  that  fortune  is  more  easily  wooed 
beneath  the  orient  heavens  than  under  that  soberer  sky*i 
which  canopies  the  spot  of  earth  called  England  — 'a 
spot  indeed  !  rising  from  the  blue  waters  just  large 
enough  to  be  a  throne  whence  delegates  are  sent  to 
rule  the  world,  and  to  which  her  children-wanderers 
look  up  with  loving  loyalty.  Well  is  it  that  youth  is 
prone  to  build  its  fairy  castles,  and  does  not  ^ream  of 
early  death,  or  lingering,  life-sapping  disease,  or  of 
enervated  mind — the  irremediable  penalties  too  often 
paid  for  all  that  the  tropics  can  give.  And  so  the 
ardent  cadet  has  more  often  a  vision  of  knighthood 
and  crosses  of  honor  than  of  'sick  leave'  and  blighted 
hopes ;  and  the  merchant  thinks  less  of  an  arid  and 
forgotten  grave,  than  of  returning  m  mankoiod's  prime 
with  the  gold  that  he  teaches  his  heart  shall  recom- 
pense love  for  its  long  and  lonely  martyrdom.  * 

Among  the  passengers  of  the  Falcon,  however,  tvas 
one  not  exactly  belonging  to  the  usual  category  of 
outward-bound  adventurers.  Mr.  Francis  Ray  ton  had 
made  his  fortune  in  India,  and  that  in  a  very  few 
years.  He  was  something  under  forty,  and  had  suf- 
fered  less  from  the  climate  than  most  English  residents 
in  Calcutta.  Nevertheless,  his  physicians  had  recom- 
mended the  long  sea-voyage  in  preference  to  the 
overland  route,  since  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that 
he  should,  for  a  few  months,  return  to  wind  up  mer- 
cantile affairs,  in  which  tens  of  thousands  of  pounds 
were  involved.  His  active,  energetic  mind  demurred 
at  this   decision  for  awhile  ;  yet   he   gave   way,  for 


172  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

health  had  never  seemed  so  precious  as  now  that 
fortune  had  made  hope  reality,  and  all  the  beautiful 
things  of  life  were  opening  to  him.  Francis  Raytoa 
"was  not  a  common  character ;  and  eager,  almost 
greedily,  as  he  had  sought  wealth,  he  had  never  sought 
it  as  an  end. 

Caroline  Smythe  was  a  girl  of  twenty,  the  daughter 
of  a  general  officer,  going  out  under  the  protection  of 
a  widowed  friend,  to  join  her  parents.  She  had  the 
beauty  of  youth,  and  a  little  beauty  besides;  with  all 
the  pride  of  what  the  Spaniards  call  '  blue  blood  ;'  and 
that  pride,  in  addition,  which  I  never  yet  found  wanting 
in  a  soldier's  daughter.  She  would  not  have  married 
a  merchant  if  life  and  death  had  hung  in  the  balance, 
for  she  would  not  have  suffered  her  own  heart  to  touch 
the  beam  ;  but  she  was  a  coquette  to  that  heart's  core, 
and  Francis  Rayton  was  by  far  the  handsomest  and 
most  intellectual  man  on  board  the  Falcon.  How  was 
it  possible^she  could  refuse  to  gratify  the  chief  besoin 
of  her  existence  > 

Helen  Seymour  was  making  the  voyage  without 
other  protection  than  that  of  the  blunt  but  kind-hearted 
captain.  Perhaps  she  did  not  require  any  at  all.  She 
was  not  very  young;  sometimes  she  looked  about  five- 
and-twenty,  at  others  you  would  have  taken  her  for 
thirty  at  least.  She  was  neither  handsome  nor  beau- 
tiful —  far  less  could  she  have  been  called  pretty  ;  that 
term  would  have  seemed  at  once  a  something  too  much 
and  too  little  to  award  her.  Yet  she  was  not  plain. 
Her  figure  was  good  ;  she  had  a  small,  white,  well- 
shaped  hand,  and  most  people  thought  she  had  a 
'  nice '   face ;  but   few  knew   the   expression  which, 


A   TALE    THAT    WAS    TOLD    TO    ME.  173 

when  happy  or  animated,  beamed  through  her  eyes, 
flushed  in  her  cheek,  and  quivered  round  her  lips. 
Few,  because  happiness  had  been  doled  out  to  her 
most  scantily,  and  she  was  not  of  that  lucky  temper- 
ament which  can  find  excitement  in  trifles,  ^elen  had 
already  outlived  her  nearest  relations,  and  she  was 
poor  ;  going  out  to  India  to  educate  the  children  of  a 
second  cousin,  who  entertained  the  romantic  notion 
of  bringing  them  up  in  one  of  the  healthier  northern 
settlements,  instead  of  following  the  commoner  plan, 
and  tearing  her  own  heart-strings  by  sending  them  to 
England.  • 

Two  more  individuals  will  complete  the  cluster  it 
is  necessary  to  describe.  James  Lawson  had  been 
for  some  years  a  confidential  clerk  or  agent  to  Mr. 
Rayton,  and  was  now  going  out  to  be  left  in  a  situa- 
tion of  considerable  trust  in  the  Calcutta  establishment. 
His  wife  and  infant  child  were  with  him ;  and  as  they 
made  home  of  any  spot  of  earth,  he  did  not  pretepd 
to  sentimental  regrets  at  leaving  his  native  land  for  a 
long  and  indefinite  period.  The  young  couple  had 
struggled  through  the  early  trials  of  poverty  ;  and 
their  affection  had  previously  been  tested  by  absence 
and  a  long  engagement ;  but  now,  after  three  years  of 
wedded  happiness,  and  bright  fortune  shining  steadily 
in  the  horizon,  life  seemed  something  more  precious, 
more  soul-satisfying  than  even  youthful  dreams  had 
pictured  it.  The  Lawsons  were  quiet  and  retiring  in 
their  deportment;  for,  with  a  feeling  which  has  quite 
as  much  pride  as  humility  in  it,  they  were  conscious 
that  they  were  only  recently  lifted  a  step  or  two  in 
society.     But  Helen  Seymour  had  an  intuitive  knowl- 


174  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES, 

edge  of  character  ;  and  knowing  them  very  speedily, 
could  not  help  being  interested.  Scarcely  cultivated 
enough  in  mind  to  be  congenial  companions  to  her, 
she  yet  honored  them  most  truly,  and  in  witnessing 
their  affection,  felt  as  if  something  in  which  she  had 
before  half  blindly  believed  was  now  made  known  to 
her.  There  was  a  manly  tenderness  in  his  behavior 
towards  his  wife,  as  far  removed  from  lover-like  adula- 
tion as  it  was  deeper  in  its  springs  and  dearer  to  her 
heart  —  manly,  for  that  same  tenderness,  the  very 
exhalation  of  true  heart-love,  is  an  attribute  that  never 
does  emanate  from  the  vain,  selfish  egotist,  or  the  friv- 
olous butterfly  of  the  world,  or  from  the  not  more 
manly  slave  of  his  own  ardent  passions.  And  then, 
on  little  Fanny's  part — for  she  was  a  little  creature, 
and  looked  up  to  him  literally  as  well  as  figuratively  — 
the  entire  devotion,  and  perfect  unbroken,  unclouded 
confidence,  were  something  beautiful  to  witness  ;  and 
with  the  constant  ministering  of  each  to  the  other, 
made  up  a  spectacle  the  most  delightful  in  the  world 
to  the  quick  eye  of  the  poet-philosopher  ;  and  Helen, 
however  humble  in  the  ranks,  yet,  like  many  others, 
who  had  never  '  penned  their  inspirations,'  belonged  to 
that  class. 

It  would  fill  a  volume  to  detail,  scene  by  scene,  how 
intimacies  were  formed  between  some  of  the  parties  I 
have  named.  Amid  the  nearly  incessant  occupation  of 
his  past  life,  Mr.  Rayton  had  had  very  little  opportu- 
nity of  mixing  in  female  society,  or  perhaps  that  which 
he  had  met  in  India  had  not  been  sufficiently  attractive 
to  induce  him  to  make  opportunities  and  cultivate  it. 
Even  while  in  London,  business  had  pressed  so  heavily 


A   TALE   THAT   WAS    TOLD   TO    ME.  175 

upon  him,  that  some  of  his  oldest  and  most  valued 
friends  he  had  neglected  to  visit.  But  life  on  board 
the  Falcon,  where  at  least  no  post  came  in  or  went 
out,  was  comparative  leisure  ;  and  he  was  hardly  sen- 
sible how  much  of  that  leisure  was  in  reality  filled  up 
by  conversation  with  Helen  Seymour.  Some  mysterious 
affinity  of  feeling  and  opinion  seemed  to  have  drawn 
them  together ;  and  yet  there  were  two  or  three  of 
the  attributes  against  which  he  had  entertained  a  posi- 
tive prejudice.  For  instance,  he  had  always  thought 
politics  quite  out  of  the  scope  of  a  woman's  reasoning ; 
yet  when  he  found  Helen's  mind  familiar  with  the 
great  truths  of  humanity  —  those  truths  to  the  expo- 
sition of  which  his  ardent  yet  half  secret  ambition 
lured  him — the  earnestness  of  life,  and  the  thousand 
topics  which  must  branch  from  such  conclusions,  he 
could  not  but  acknowledge,  though  not  without  sur- 
prise, that  her  sympathy  and  companionship  were 
none  the  less  delightful  because  she  was  a  woman. 

It  was  not  in  a  coquette's  nature  to  look  calmly 
on  while  the  object  she  had  selected  for  a  flirtation 
showed  an  evident  preference  for  an  '  old  maidish ' 
rival.  Caroline  certainly  knew  nothing  of  politics 
beyond  having  been  taught  to  scorn,  with  all  the  hate 
of  ignorance,  the  very  party  to  which  Rayton  belonged ; 
if,  indeed,  one  of  so  wide  and  comprehensive  a  mind 
could  have  narrowed  it  to  the  jealousies  which  seem 
inseparable  from  party  feeling  or  connection.  But  she 
had  a  trick  of  appealing  to  him  for  information,  and 
throwing  herself  on  his  forbearance,  in  that  pretty,  con- 
fiding, feminine  manner,  that  is  by  no  means  without 
its  fascination  ;  and  it  was  not  easy  to  meet  the  glance 


176  .  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

of  her  soft  large  hazel  eyes,  as,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head,  she  threw  back  her  clustering  ringlets,  and  made 
acknowledgments,  at  the  same  moment,  of  any  mental 
deficiencies,  Caroline  had  nothing  in  the  past  but 
school-girl  days  and — her  numerous  conquests  —  to 
remember,  and  the  present  seemed  made  to  enjoy  ac- 
cording to  her  fleeting  inclinations.  Helen  had  felt, 
and  seen,  and  suffered — had  lived  all  her  past,  and  for 
the  future  was  brave  to  endure  and  high  principled  to 
act.  Francis  Rayton  stood  between  a  good  and  an 
evil  genius,  and  had  he  questioned  his  own  heart  he 
would  have  discovered  the  fact.  But  he  did  not  do  so 
—  he  had  always  looked  on  love  as  an  episode  in  a 
man's  life,  and  one  that  should  only  be  indulged  in  on 
a  proper  occasion.  Now  this  occasion  he  had  for 
years  been  accustomed  to  consider  his  final  settlement 
'in  England  ;  and  so  he  sufl'ered  himself  to  be  swayed 
by  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and  what  is  so  very 
foolishly  called  chance. 

Weeks  had  passed  —  they  expected  to  touch  at  the 
Cape  in  a  day  or  two. 

'  Pray  take  my  arm  for  a  turn  on  deck  this  delicious 
evening,'  said  Mr.  Rayton,  approaching  Helen,  who 
was  standing  near  one  of  the  lady  passengers.  Helen 
never  sought  any  particular  attention  from  him,  but 
perhaps  shfe  did  not  quite  conceal  that  it  gave  her 
pleasure  to  receive  it. 

'  I  never  beheld  so  beautiful  a  sky,'  she  exclaimed, 
pointing  to  the  horizon,  where  the  moon  was  rising, 
like  an  orb  of  gold,  out  of  the  dark  waters.  '  And  the 
sea,'  she  continued,  'slumbering  like  a  gentle  friend, 
instead  of  the  cruel  tyrant  which  we  know  an  hour 
might  make  it.' 


A   TALE    THAT   WAS    TOLD   TO    ME.  177 

'  Nay,'  said  Rayton,  '  do  not  let  us  think  of  storms 
and  danger.  Our  voyage  has  hitherto  been  so  pros- 
perous, and  I  have  such  faith  in  the  Falcon,  that  1  do 
not  suffer  myself  to  dream  of  disasters.' 

'  You  speak  with  all  the  confidence  of  an  old  voy- 
ager,' replied  Helen,  smiling  ;  '  but  beyond  a  steam- 
boat excursion  of  a  day  or  two,  this  is  my  first 
acquaintance  with  '  blue  water,'  and  I  am  not  yet  sure 
how  far  I  confide  in  it.' 

This  allusion  to  steamboat  excursions  led  to  reminis- 
cences of  Helen's  continental  travel  ;  and  though  she 
had  often  spoken  on  the  subject  before,  to  Rayton's  ear 
there  always  seemed  something  new  to  tell,  for  she 
described  scenes  he  had  ardently  longed  to  visit.  Pos- 
sibly some  vague  notion  crept  into  his  mind  that  she 
would  be  a  charming  companion  amid  the  ruins  of  em- 
pires, in  the  galleries  of  art,  or  wherever  the  spirit  of 
poetry  hovered.  Talking  of  Art  led,  I  cannot  tell  how, 
though 'it  often  does  —  to  the  subject  of  Love;  and 
Helen  spoke  with  the  frankness  of  a  true-hearted 
woman,  who  was  far  too  honest  to  feign  either  indiffer- 
ence or  ignorance  of  the  theme.  And  so  they  con- 
versed earnestly,  not  flippantly,  on  the  great  Lottery  of 
Life,  from  which  so  few  prizes  and  so  many  blanks  are 
drawn  —  or  rather,  over  which  it  would  seem  some  evil 
destiny  presides  to  mismatch  the  assorted  pairs.  It 
might  be  fancy,  but  each  thought  there  was  a  slight 
quiver  in  the  voice  of  the  other,  and  a  modulation  that 
made  the  tone  different  from  that  of  ordinary  discourse. 
There  was  something,  too,  in  the  solemn  grandeur  of 
the  moonlit  ocean  that  well  accorded  with  the  sentiment 
which  ruled  the  hour  ;  for  if  the  loveliness  of  nature 
12 


178  ENGLISH    TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

fails  among  coarser  clay  to  awaken  the  loftiest  sympa- 
thies of  humanity,  its  contemplation  always  '  feeds  the 
flame '  where  once  it  is  kindled.  Again  Francis  Ray- 
ton  and  Helen  Seymour  spoke  of  tempest  and  ship- 
wreck ;  but  now  the  theme  was  blended  with  stories  of 
heroism  and  devotion,  and  of  the  loving  hearts  that  had 
gone  down  together.  Even  Rayton  —  the  busy  money- 
winner,  the  man  of  the  world  —  though  capable  of 
deeper  sentiment  and  purer  passion  than  he  himself 
was  aware  —  acknowledged  that  there  might  be  cases 
in  which  such  a  death  would  be  sweeter  than  all  life 
could  give  to  the  solitary  survivor. 

'Of  this  1  am  sure,'  he  exclaimed,  'that  the  impulse 
of  the  moment,  while  it  ruled  the  conduct,  would  be  the 
test  of  the  heart's  affection.' 

Was  it  impulse,  or  accident,  or  absence  of  mind,  that 
made  him  press  for  an  instant,  almost  with  an  interlac- 
ing of  the  fingers,  the  ungloved  hand  which  rested  on 
his  arm  ? 

On  the  second  finger  of  that  hand,  Helen  constantly 
wore  a  beautiful  emerald  ring,  nearly  the  only  orna- 
ment of  value  which  had  been  remarked  about  her,  and 
which  she  had  on  one  occasion  spoken  of  as  her  dearest 
memorial,  that  of  a  dead  sister. 

Rayton's  little  finger  was  encircled  by  a  curious 
antique  cameo. 

They  were  silent :  but  the  silence  to  one  heart  at 
least  had  a  delicious  meaning.  It  was  broken  by  a 
voice  close  at  hand. 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Rayton,'  said  a  tall  cadet,  a  boy  in  years, 
but  longing  beyond  all  things  to  be  considered  a  man 
— '  Oh,  Mr.  Rayton,  pray  come  and  try  your  persua- 


A  TALE  THAT  WAS  TOLD  TO  ME.       179 

sions  with  Miss  Smythe  ;  she  won't  touch  her  guitar  for 
all  we  can  beg  and  implore.  But  every  one  says  a 
word  from  you  will  be  sufficient.' 

'  Really,  they  do  me  honor,'  replied  Rayton,  hesi- 
tating, and  not  at  all  grateful  for  having  his  tete-d-tete 
broken. 

'  Pray  go,'  said  Helen,  with  a  beautiful  smile ;  for 
she  was  one  of  those  women  as  incapable  of  feeling 
mean  petty  jealousy,  as  she  was  of  herself  giving  cause 
for  it. 

He  went ;  and  the  sullen  beauty  relented  at  what 
were,  after  all,  but  common-place  compliments.  She 
sang  several  French  and  Spanish  love-songs,  now 
archly,  now  pathetically ;  and  as  the  evening  waned, 
Rayton  found  himself  drawn  into  the  vortex  of  frivolity, 
and  lavishing  all  his  petits  soins  on  the  coquettish 
Caroline.  Helen  was  not  present,  either  to  share  his 
attentions,  or  distract  him  from  them.  Fresh  from  that 
interview,  she  could  not  have  joined  the  general  society 
of  their  fellow-passengers.  She  lingered  for  some 
time  on  deck,  and  if — as  she  leaned  her  head  on 
her  hand  and  gazed  upon  the  heaving  waters  —  her 
reverie  had  been  translated  into  words,  it  would  have 
run  thus  :  ^ 

'  So  good  —  so  noble  !  —  so  true  —  I  am  sure.  Oh, 
that  we  had  met  years  ago  —  I  could  have  made  him 
happy,  and  helped  him  to  be  great.  Yet  now  if  it 
were  possible  '  —  and  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  side, 
as  if  to  still  her  heart's  wild  beating,  then  covered  her 
face  with  them  — '  at  least  it  will  be  happiaess  enough 
for  me  to  love  him  —  yet  could  I  endure  he  should 
love  another  ? '     And  reverie  melting  into  prayer,  she 


180  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

ejaculated,  '  Oh,  God,  have  mercy  upon  me  !  the  first 
love  of  ignorant  youth  is  faint  and  flickering —  now  I 
know  that  it  is  the  last  love  which  is  destiny  ! ' 

But  the  breeze  had  freshened  ;  for  long  unnoticed 
by  Helen  till  she  shivered  in  her  light  mantle,  and 
then  she  sought  her  cabin,  and  her  flushed  cheek 
pressed  the  pillow,  while  still  the  one  reverie  prevailed 
—  the  beautiful  reverie  of  the  ideal  made  palpable  — 
dissolving  from  time  to  time,  as  before,  into  the  devout 
petition,  '  Oh,  God  have  mercy  upon  me  ! ' 

And  the  breeze  still  freshened ;  but  those  who  were 
wearing  away  the  hours  with  song  and  mirth  and  idle 
speech,  heeded  it  not,  and  in  a  few  hours  even  they 
sought  slumber ;  and  all  were  dreaming,  sleeping  or 
waking  dreams,  save  the  watchful  crew  who  guarded 
and  guided  the  floating  palace. 

But  the  breeze  still  freshened  ;  and  there  were  heav- 
ings  and  rollings  of  the  stately  vessel,  that  made  rest 
and  slumber  difficult  or  impossible.  And  there  were 
noises  overhead  ;  and  the  trampling  of  many  feet,  and 
the  hauling  of  ropes,  and  the  quick  command  —  some- 
times the  angry  word  and  muttered  imprecation.  And 
behold  when  morning  dawned  there  was  a  murky  sky 
above,  chequered  from  time  to  time  by  the  swiftly 
driving  clouds,  that  seemed  but  the  servants  of  the 
fierce  capricious  winds.  The  treacherous  ocean,  lashed 
to  fury,  heaved  and  foamed  in  monstrous  billows  round 
the  devoted  ship  ;  and  the  shrieking  cry  of  the  sails,  as 
they  split  like  paper,  was  scarcely  to  be  distinguished 
amid  the  roar  of  the  tempest  !  Terror  and  anxiety 
had  set  their  seal  on  every  countenance  ;  brave  men 
grew  pale  and  silent,  and  timid  women  wept  and  prayed 
aloud. 


A   TALE    THAT   WAS   TOLD    TO    ME.  181 

Very  few  were  so  calm  as  Helen  Seymour;  she 
spoke  words  of  hope  and  encouragement  to  the  fearful 
and  fainting ;  exhorted  even  the  rough  sailors  to  do 
their  duty  with  brave  composure,  and  seemed  by  her 
own  example  to  instruct  all  to  meet  with  resignation 
the  will  of  Providence,  yet  to  use  all  human  means  to 
avert  disaster.  A  terrible  calamity  was  at  hand ;  the 
skilful  captain  and  two  men  at  his  side  were  swept  by 
one  huge  and  sudden  wave  into  the  surging  waters.  In 
a  desperate  attempt  to  rescue  them,  a  boat  and  more 
lives  were  lost.  For  awhile  the  very  will  of  those 
who  were  next  in  command  seemed  paralyzed,  and 
confusion  reigned.  It  was  during  this  time  that 
Helen  applied  herself  to  assuaging  the  sufferings  of 
a  poor  woman  who  had  been  injured  by  the  fall  of  a 
mast,  rending  her  own  dress  to  bind  up  the  bleeding 
arm. 

Francis  Rayton  gazed  at  her  from  time  to  time,  and 
spoke  to  her  occasionally  ;  but  mingling  with  his  ad- 
miration, a  feeling  almost  of  awe  crept  over  him.  She 
seemed  something  above  himself —  even  beyond  his 
comprehension  ;  yet  ever  as  her  eyes  met  his,  there 
was  a  light  of  faith  and  trust  and  almost  gladness  shone 
from  them,  which  was  more  divine  than  that  of  any 
earthly  hope. 

Lawson  and  his  wife  sat  hand  in  hand  ;  at  intervals 
large  silent  tears  rolled  down  poor  Fanny's  cheeks, 
which  more  than  once  he  kissed  or  wiped  away;  and 
he  had  wound  a  large  scarf  around  her  in  such  a 
manner  that  it  supported  the  infant  in  her  arms,  and 
held  it  inextricably  there.  Caroline  Smythe  had  been 
of  the  crouching,  weeping  party,  though  possibly  too 


182  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

ignorant  to  be  really  conscious  of  their  absolute  peril ; 
and  sometimes  she  appealed  to  Rayton,  as  if  his  word 
were  a  fiat,  or  clung  to  his  arm,  as  if  there  dwelt  pro- 
tection. 

One  disaster  followed  another,  till  the  Falcon,  like 
some  noble  animal  maimed  and  shorn  of  its  limbs,  lay 
almost  a  helpless  log  upon  the  waters;  and  soon  the 
catastrophe  dreaded  from  the  first  was  fatally  realized. 
The  ship  struck  upon  the  rocks,  and  the  only  hope  of 
dear  life  rested  with  the  boats.  The  crash  of  noises, 
cries,  and  prayers,  and  bursts  of  passionate  agony, 
made  up  a  scene  of  terror,  such  as  sharers  or  wit- 
nesses have  often  attempted  to  describe. 

'Quick — quick.  Miss  Seymour,'  said  Rayton,  ap- 
proaching Helen,  and  taking  her  by  the  arm,  '  there  is 
not  a  moment  to  be  lost  —  think  not  of  property,  let 
us  save  only  ourselves.' 

'Let  me,'  replied  Helen,  (us  she  was  nearly  saying,) 
*  wait  for  the  second  boat  —  I  can  be  of  use  here.' 

And  she  spoke  truly  ; —  she  was  of  that  great  use 
which  a  calm  and  superior  mind  always  is  in  swaying 
inferior  natures.  She  was  exhorting  to  composure  and 
cheering  with  hopeful  words  a  party  of  steerage  pas- 
sengers, who  but  for  this  influence  might  have  added 
to  the  struggle  and  confusion  around.  At  this  moment, 
wild  with  terror,  yet  looking  very  beautiful  neverthe- 
less, Caroline  Smythe  rushed  towards  Mr.  Rayton,  and 
sank  almost  fainting  into  his  outstretched  arms.  The 
profusion  of  her  rich  dark  hair,  which  curled  in  natural 
ringlets,  fell  over  his  shoulder,  and,  borne  by  the  tem- 
pest-blast, streamed  across  his  face.  Helen  Seymour 
looked  up,  but  she  met  not  his  gaze  ;  Rayton's  eyes 


A   TALE    THAT    WAS    TOLD    TO    ME.  183 

were  fixed  on  the  chiselled  features  of  the  deathlike 
countenance  that  almost  touched  his  cheek.  '  Speed 
—  speed,'  was  the  cry  on  every  side,  and,  swayed  by 
the  '  impulse  of  the  moment,'  Francis  Rayton  placed 
Caroline  in  the  boat,  and,  yielding  to  her  murmured 
persuasion,  stayed  beside  her ! 

Now  seemingly  ingulfed  in  the  waters,  then  rising 
on  the  crest  of  a  foaming  billow,  the  first  boat  sped  on 
towards  the  shore,  while  the  second  was  rapidly  filling 
with  half  desperate  fugitives.  There  was  a  general 
cry  that  the  women  should  be  saved  first. 

'  My  love  —  my  life  ! '  exclaimed  Fanny  Lawson, 
clinging  to  her  husband  with  passionate  agony ; 
'  swear  to  me  that  we  shall  not  be  parted  ;  swear  that 
you  will  not  urge  me  to  enter  the  boat  if  there  be  not 
room  for  both.' 

But  for  only  answer,  while  he  supported  her  with 
one  arm,  he  pressed  the  other  hand  to  his  eyes,  as  if 
he  dared  not  look  upon  her.  '  Come  —  come,'  said  a 
sailor,  attempting  to  lead  her  away  ;  but  Fanny  had 
fainted,  and  Lawson,  taking  her  in  his  arms  as  if  she 
had  been  a  child,  pressed  a  frantic  kiss  upon  her 
motionless  lips,  and  bore  her  away  towards  the  boat. 
Like  a  bale  of  merchandise  was  she  passed  from  hand 
to  hand,  while  Lawson  flung  himself  upon  the  deck  of 
the  fast-filling  ship,  in  the  utter  prostration  of  his  agony. 
A  sailor  was  assisting  Helen  Seymour  to  step  across 
masses  of  cordage  and  fragments  of  various  kinds ;  her 
countenance  was  of  a  deathlike  paleness,  and  her  lips 
were  compressed  by  some  firm  determination.  Yet 
even  in  this  hour  of  life  and  death,  she  stooped  to  pick 
up  an  object  which  had  rolled  towards  her  feet ;  it  was 


184  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES.' 

Francis  Rayton's  cameo  ring,  which  must  have  dropped 
from  his  finger. 

'  Lawson  !  —  come  —  quickly,'  said  Helen,  speaking 
rapidly,  yet  with  wonderful  calnmess.  Then,  as  they 
approached  the  edge  of  the  vessel,  and  addressing  the 
crew,  who  were  only  waiting  for  her,  she  continued  : 
'  I  yield  my  place  to  James  Lawson  ;  —  let  not  two 
loving  hearts  be  parted.' 

There  was  a  hush  of  wonder  and  admiration,  even 
amid  the  terror  of  the  moment ;  but  events  might  have 
changed  their  course,  had  not  Fanny  recovered  her 
senses,  and  seeing  only  that  her  husband  hesitated 
joining  the  fugitives,  without  comprehending  why,  she 
stepped  on  the  edge  of  the  boat  with  the  gesture  of  one 
who  would  fling  herself  from  it.  By  an  instinct  ratlier 
than  a  process  of  reasoning,  her  husband  stretched  to- 
wards her,  and,  falling  back,  she  drew  him  after  her. 

'  Do  not  grieve  for  me,'  said  Helen  Seymour,  as  the 
boat  was  loosened  from  the  wreck,  and  —  for  the  tem- 
pest had  lulled  —  her  clear  tones  were  heard  distinctly. 
'  Do  not  grieve  —  there  is  still  a  chance  of  rescue  for 
me  ;  but  if  I  die,  I  do  so  willingly.  Yesterday  life  was 
precious  —  to-day  it  is  valueless.' 

Alas  !  the  one  remaining  chance  was  desperate  ;  as, 
indeed,  her  generous  heart  foreboded.  The  last  and 
smallest  boat  was  not  seaworthy ;  it  filled  and  went 
down  even  in  the  attempt  to  launch  it.  Some  three  or 
four  sailors  still  remained  on  the  wreck  ;  and  warmed 
to  self-sacrifice  by  Helen's  example,  they  tried  to 
construct  a  raft  for  her  security  ;  but  materials  were 
wanting,  and  with  blank  countenances  they  gave  up 
the  attempt  in  despair.     '  Waste  not  time  and  strength 


A  TALE  THAT  WAS  TOLD  TO  ME.       185 

for  me,  my  friends,'  said  Helen,  in  a  clear  low  tone  ; 
you  are  strong  swimmers,  and  have  a  chance  of  life. 
For  me  it  is  the  Death  Hour  ;  and  though  death  comes 
with  few  terrors,  I  would  meet  it  alone  —  in  silent, 
prayerful  thought.  It  is  sweet  to  know  the  father  is 
not  torn  from  wife  and  child  —  three  human  beings 
made  happy.'  And  while  she  spoke,  she  wreathed  one 
arm  round  so  much  of  the  shivered  mast  as  remained, 
as  if  she  had  taken  her  final  stand  in  the  sinking  ship. 
One  of  the  sailors  clung  to  her  hand,  and  kissed  it, 
swearing  it  were  best  to  die  with  her,  and  seek  her 
angel  intercession  at  the  gates  of  heaven ;  and  another 
implored  her  to  trust  to  his  strong  arm,  that  should 
struggle  with  her  towards  the  shore. 

'  No  life  shall  be  risked  in  saving  mine,'  she  said, 
firmly ;  and  indeed  the  few  minutes  which  had  re- 
mained for  parley  were  soon  over,  and  as  each,  by  the 
strong  instinct  of  self-preservation,  sought  some  stay 
among  the  floating  spars  around,  the  last  object  they 
beheld  was  Helen's  white  dress  and  upturned  coun- 
tenance, as  she  sank,  without  a  struggle,  into  the  deep 
waters. 

No  matter  how  the  boats  careered  landward,  and  the 
strong  swimmers  reached  the  shore  with  life.  A  trem- 
bling, grateful  band  uplifted  their  souls  in  praise  and 
thanksgiving.  ^ 

Helen's  corse  was  washed  to  the  beach  with  the  next 
flow  of  the  tide  ;  that  form  which  had  enshrined,  per- 
haps, a  greater  heart  than  dwelt  among  the  rescued. 
Her  action,  her  words  had  been  repeated  from  mouth 
to  mouth  ;  and  many  were  the  tears  shed  around  her 
—  many  the  kisses  pressed  upon  her  pale  cheek  and 


186  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

brow.  Fanny  Lavvson  flung  herself  beside  the  body 
in  an  altitude  of  worship  ;  and  her  husband's  lip  quiv- 
ered with  manly  emotion.  Even  the  child  was  made 
to  kiss  the  dead,  and  a  strange  hope  indulged  that  it 
might  remember  the  scene.  Francis  Rayton  had  re- 
quested that  he  might  look  upon  her  remains  —  alone. 
He  entered  the  shaded  chamber,  where  she  lay  in 
white  garments  ;  her  rich  light  hair,  still  dank  from  the 
ocean  baptism,  parted  from  the  forehead,  and  reaching 
in  long  lines  below  her  waist.  Her  countenance  bore 
an  expression  of  angelic  serenity :  and  she  looked 
young  —  oh,  so  much  younger  than  when  swayed  by 
the  hopes  and  the  fears,  and  the  passions  of  life  !  On 
her  finger  still  rested  the  emerald  ring ;  but  next  to  her 
hand,  and  guarded  hy  that  precious  memento,  was 
Rayton's  cameo,  evidently  in  the  death  hour  yet  more 
dearly  cherished.  Rayton  had  not  shed  tears  since 
boyhood,  but  as  he  gazed  he  burst  into  a  passion  of 
weeping"^  then,  when  something  like  calmness  was 
restored,  he  drew  away  the  emerald,  and  placed  it' on 
his  own  finger.  To  the  authorities  he  intimated  that 
he  would  pay  to  her  representatives  any  price  which 
might  be  set  upon  it ;  and  requested  that  the  cameo 
might  not  be  removed  from  the  dead.  No  one  dis- 
puted his  right  to  direct ;  and  by  his  order,  a  monument 
of  white  marble  has  been  erected  above  that  African 
grave,  bearing  the  simple  inscription  : 

*  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  MOST  NOBLE  WOMAN.' 

Rayton  did  not  proceed  to  Calcutta  in  the  same 
vessel  which  conveyed  the  remainder  of  the  passen- 
gers ;  it  would  seem,  indeed,  that  he  purposely  avoided 


A  TALE  THAT  WAS  TOLD  TO  ME.       187 

their  companionship.  He  returned  to  England  as 
speedily  as  possible  ;  is  still  unmarried  —  immersed 
in  politics  and  speculations.  Once,  when  a  most  dear 
friend  questioned  him  on  his  mode  of  life,  he  answered 
bitterly,  quoting  a  line  from  Tennyson's  passion- 
kindled  poem  : 

*  I  myself  must  mix  with  Action,  lest  I  wither  by  Despair.' 


THE  STORY  OF   A  PICTURE. 

In  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  something,  Henry 
Cummins  awoke  one  morning  and  discovered  —  what 
very  much  surprised  '  the  world'  when  they  heard  it, 
and  almost  astonished  himself,  namely  —  that  he  was 
penniless  !  In  three  years  he  had  run  through  the 
savings  of  a  life ;  for  his  father,  a  plodding  man  of 
business,  had  bequeathed  above  thirty  thousand  pounds 
to  his  only  child,  having  previously  given  him  what 
is  called  '  a  good  education '  —  a  term  which  is,  alas  ! 
too  often  a  sad  misnomer.  What  is  commonly  called 
a  '  good '  education,  sometimes  turns  out  to  have  been 
a  yery  '  bad '  one.  Although  a  tradesman,  old  Mr. 
Cummins  had  an  amiable  weakness,  (if  weakness  it 
must  be  called,)  yclept  family  pride,  and  his  anxious 
hope  was,  that  Henry  would  resuscitate  the  honor  of 
the  family.  Yes,  he  belonged  to  a  family  which  had 
been  renowned  through  several  generations  ;  but  as, 
virtue  and  honor  do  not  always  fill  the  purse,  and 
in  this  unromantic  age  it  is  found  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  pay  butchers  and  bakers,  it  was  thought  advis- 
able for  a  younger  branch  of  the  genealogical  tree  to 
strike  fresh  root  in  the  plebeian  but  extremely  invig- 
orating soil  of  trade.      Mr.  Cummins  had  been  the 


THE    STORY    OF    A   PICTURE.  189 

younger  branch  destined  for  this  healthful  process,  and 
Henry  had  been  intended  for  the  bar,  the  father's 
dreams  of  course  picturing  him  on  the  woolsack. 
But  a  lavish  allowance  for  his  pocket,  and  the  gratifi- 
cation of  every  wish  not  absolutely  vicious,  while  yet 
in  his  teens,  were  not  precisely  the  means  to  render 
him  a  steady  or  a  studious  man.  He  was  twenty 
when  his  father  died,  and  he  came  into  uncontrolled 
possession  of  his  property  a  year  afterwards  ;  so,  con- 
sidering that  he  found  it  quite  impossible  the  first  year 
to  live  on  four  times  the  sum  that  his  trustee  allowed 
him,  and  that  he  did  contrive,  and  not  very  mysteri- 
ously, to  borrow  some  thousands  during  that  period, 
it  is  not  surprising  that  at  the  end  of  three  years,  as  we 
have  said  before,  he  awoke  one  morning  and  found 
himself  without  a  penny.  He  made  other  discoveries, 
too,  at  the  same  moment.  He  found,  that,  paying 
the  price  of  his  whole  fortune,  he  had  not,  after  all, 
purchased  happiness  ;  and  when  the  first  stunning  sen- 
sation of  extreme  Mnhappiness  and  affliction  which  his 
different  discoveries  occasioned  had  a  little  abated, 
there  sprang  up  in  his  mind  a  wonderful  growth  of 
good  resolutions  for  the  future,  and  some  sort  of  inward 
assurance,  which  was  better  than  all,  that  told  him  he 
he  had  energy  enough  to  carry  them  out. 

But  the  question  was,  what  first  should  be  done  ? 
After  a  little  while  all  visionary  plans  and  specula- 
tions melted  into  the  one  strong  sense  of  the  necessity 
of  selling  at  once  horses  and  carriages,  house,  fur- 
niture, and  every  species  of  available  property,  with 
the  proceeds  of  which  he  hoped  to  discharge  debts 
still   outstanding,  and  have   perhaps  a  trifle  to  begin 


190  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

the  world  with.  Now,  abstractedly,  a  chair  is  but  a 
chair,  a  table  but  a  table,  yet  every  one  will  allow  the 
power  that  even  inanimate  objects  possess  of  twining 
themselves  around  the  heart,  until  a  final  separation 
is  absolutely  painful.  Henry  Cummins  was  perfectly 
aware  of  this  fact,  as  on  the  morning  of  the  sale  he 
walked  through  every  room  of  his  house,  for  the  last 
time,  among  his  household  gods.  There  they  were, 
every  one  ticketed,  and  standing  uncomfortably  for- 
ward, as  if  they  had  already  taken  leave  of  their 
master,  and  were  inviting  themselves  to  the  notice  of 
the  strangers  who  walked  through  the  rooms.  Had 
the  weather  been  dull  and  cloudy,  nature  would  have 
seemed  in  unison  with  the  spendthrift's  feelings  ;  but 
the  sun  streamed  in  most  unsympathizingly,  as  if  to 
mock  his  anguish,  and  (what  perhaps  he  also  observed) 
to  throw  a  very  unbecoming  degree  of  light  upon 
faded  damask,  cracked  china,  and  tarnished  gilding. 
It  is  possible  that  he  might  have  given  a  rough  guess 
at  the  different  prices  which  might  have  been  expected 
had  a  cloudy  sky  veiled  such  imperfections,  yet  it  was 
not  that  which  made  his  cravat  feel  something  loo 
tight,  or  produced  the  nervous  twitches  which  might 
have  been  remarked  about  his  mouth ;  for  though 
tears — those  exhalations  of  intense  agony,  a  man's 
tears  —  did  rise  to  his  eyes,  pride  drove  them  back. 
It  was  very  strange  that  his  father's  arm-chair,  or 
his  mother's  work-table,  should  produce  such  emotions, 
and  yet  they  oppressed  his  heart  most  strongly  when 
he  observed  a  stranger  pause,  with  all  the  assurance  in 
the  world,  to  examine  a  certain  old  picture.  Now,  it 
chanced  that  this  was  about  the  only  thing  to  which 


THE    STORY    OF   A   PICTURE.  191 

the  sunshine  was  favorable,  for  without  streaming  upon 
it,  a  flood  of  light  nevertheless  illumined  the  apart- 
ment, and,  coming  from  the  right  direction,  brought 
out  beauties  that  might  otherwise  have  remained  un- 
observed. 

It  was,  indeed,  an  exquisite  painting  —  no  matter  by 
which  of  the  old  masters ;  and  it  had  belonged  to  the 
Cummins  family  for  several  generations.  It  was  a 
landscape  scene  with  figures;  the  season  bright  gor- 
geous summer ;  and  the  picture  was  among  Henry 
Cummins'  earliest  recollections  and  associations.  In 
the  days  of  frocks  and  pinafores  he  had  played  before 
it,  looking  up  sometimes,  and  almost  wondering  if  the 
shadows  would  ever  grow  longer,  or  the  knot  of  har- 
vest people  ever  finish  the  day's  labor.  And  in  years 
later  than  those  of  frockhood,  he  had  tried  his  daring 
hand  in  copying  the  great  original,  only,  it  must  be 
confessed,  to  throw  palette  and  brushes  away  in  dis- 
gust ;  and  in  recent  times  he  had  pointed  out  its 
beauties  to  admiring  visitors,  while  it  had  been  the 
silent  witness  of  his  follies  —  silent,  surely,  because  he 
would  not  listen,  for  now  to  the  mind's  ear  it  spoke 
trumpet-tongued  reproaches.  There  it  hung,  in  its 
old  fashioned  frame,  ticketed  No.  27.  Had  that  ticket 
supernatural  powers  ?  —  for  verily,  to  the  vision  of 
Henry  Cummins,  the  figures  seemed  starting  to  life, 
as  they  looked  down  sorrowfully  and  reproachfully  at 
him.  The  stranger  whose  glance  the  picture  had 
arrested,  was  a  little  old  gentleman,  dressed  in  brown, 
who  held  by  the  hand  a  beautiful  girl  of  about  twelve 
years  old.  The  fairy -like  child  was  soon  satisfied  with 
looking  at  the  picture,  and  slipped  her  hand  from  that 


19^  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

of  her  grandfather,  the  better  to  observe  a  china  mon- 
ster, which  had  caught  her  attention  ;  and  then  the 
little  old  man  drew  out  his  spectacles,  stepped  some- 
what nearer  to  the  painting,  and  putting  his  arms 
behind  his  back,  and  clasping  with  one  hand  the  wrist 
of  the  other,  stood  for  full  five  minutes  in  a  dream  of 
delight.  He  was  aroused  from  it  by  a  joyous  laugh  of 
the  child,  for  the  grotesque  image  had  been  irresisti- 
ble. The  child's  laugh  grated  on  the  heart  of  Henry 
Cummins  almost  as  much  as  the  bright  sunshine  had 
done  ;  and  though  he  gazed  at  her  full  in  the  face,  as 
she  shook  back  the  thick  curls  which  shaded  it,  and 
besought  '  grandpapa  '  to  buy  the  green  and  purple 
monster,  he  certainly  did  not  perceive  she  was  the 
most  beautiful  object  in  the  room  —  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  he  thought  her  a  noisy,  troublesome  child. 

The  little  old  gentleman  promised  to  buy  the  mon- 
ster, and  telling  Julia  that  the  sale  would  commence  in 
half  an  hour,  he  led  her  down  stairs,  and  put  her  into 
a  carriage  which  was  waiting,  and  which  quickly  drove 
off.  All  this  Henry  Cummins  beheld  from  a  window, 
though  he  could  not  hear  what  directions  were  given 
to  the  coachman.  However,  in  another  minute  the 
little  old  gentleman  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
but  he  passed  by  the  picture  without  noticing  it  again, 
and  after  giving  rather  an  indifferent  glance  to  some 
other  objects,  seated  himself  within  a  few  paces  of  the 
auctioneer's  desk.  Henry  Cummins  wondered  if  he 
meant  to  bid  for  the  picture,  and  felt  almost  decided  to 
buy  it  in  himself;  but  he  did  not  wish  to  make  himself 
known  to  the  auctioneer,  and  so  determined  to  bid  as  a 
stranger.     The  sale  began,  and  the  china  monster, 


THE    STORY   OF   A   PICTTTRE.  193 

which  was  in  the  first  page  of  the  catalogue,  was 
knocked  down  to  the  little  old  gentleman.  It  had  been 
run  up  to  a  sum  far  beyond  its  value,  for  the  purchaser 
had  shown  he  was  determined  to  have  it.  Perhaps  he 
took  a  hint  from  this  circumstance,  or,  perhaps  he  was 
in  reality  an  experienced  bidder,  and  had  only  from 
some  accident  been  off  his  guard  in  a  trifling  matter ; 
however  this  might  be,  when  the  picture  was  put  up  for 
sale  the  old  gentleman's  voice  was  not  heard  at  all. 
It  is  true  the  auctioneer  must  have  received,  from  time 
to  time,  telegraphic  dispatches  from  somebody,  as, 
without  the  bidders  being  always  heard,  '  going  — 
going '  —  was  followed  by  higher  and  higher  offers. 
At  last,  as  if  himself  out  of  patience,  the  auctioneer 
sharply  let  fall  his  mystical  symbol,  even  before  Henry 
Cummins  could  determine  on  an  advance,  and  a  nod  of 
the  head  proclaimed  that  the  picture  belonged  to  the 
little  old  gentleman.  He  looked  remarkably  happy, 
for  he  would  willingly  have  given  hundreds  for  that 
which  he  had  purchased  for  thirty-five  pounds.  Once 
more  he  approached  the  painting,  gazing  now  with  a 
sort  of  parental  admiration  ;  but  this  time  Henry  Cum- 
mins was  at  his  elbow.  A  quick  beating  of  the  heart 
had  superseded  the  thickness  in  his  throat  as  the  latter 
exclaimed  — '  Sir,  I  will  give  you  twenty  pounds  for 
your  bargain ! ' 

'  Sir,  I  would  not  take  fifty,'  returned  the  other. 

*  What  will  you  take  .?'  rejoined  Henry. 

'  Nothing  you  can  offer.  Sir,  I  mean  to  keep  the 
picture ; '  and  the  old  gentleman  clasped  his  arms 
behind  his  back,  in  his  favorite  attitude  of  determina- 
tion. 

13 


194  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

'  I  was  deputed  by  Mr.  Cummins,'  exclaimed  Henry, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  *  to  buy  in  this  painting  ;  it 
is  much  prized  by  him,  having  many  old  family  asso- 
ciations, and  at  the  last  moment  he  repented  having 
offered  it  for  sale.  You  would  not  have  had  it.  Sir, 
had  the  auctioneer  been  a  second  less  quick  in  his 
decision.' 

'  Lucky  for  me,  lucky  for  me,  that  he  was  so  sharp  ; 
and  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  repentance  of  such  a 
young  scapegrace  as  Mr.  Henry  Cummins.' 

'  Do  you  know  him.  Sir  .?' 

'  Enough  to  know  that  the  picture  is  much  safer  in 
my  possession  than  in  his.  I  suppose  he  is  going  to 
turn  shoe-black,  or  something  of  that  sort ;  he  can't  be 
fit  for  anything  better,  I  should  think.' 

*  They  say  he  is  going  to  India  —  a  friendless, 
moneyless  adventurer.' 

'  Eh  !  what !  —  well,  it  is  never  too  late  to  reform  ; 
but  I  can't  let  him  have  the  picture  for  all  that.  Good 
morning.  Sir  ;  my  carriage  is  waiting.' 

There  are  mysterious  chords  in  our  nature,  which 
trifles  may  sometimes  awaken  to  the  holiest  purposes ; 
and  the  feelings  which  this  incident  drew  forth  formed 
the  key-stone  to  the  strong  arch  of  Henry  Cummins' 
good  resolutions  —  an  arch  which  spanned  his  future 
life.  He  had  hitherto,  like  thousands  of  young  men  in 
similar  circumstances,  lived  a  life  of  pure  heedlessness 
—  taking  no  thought  of  the  morrow  —  ignorant  of  the 
value  of  money  —  and  concerned  only  in  the  paltry 
and  fleeting  enjoyments  of  the  senses  ;  but  while  his 
long,  and  fond,  and  earnest  farewell  gaze  rested  upon 
tliat  picture,  he  understood,  for  the  first  time,  that  we 


THE    STORY    OF   A   PICTTTRE.  195 

have  duties  in  this  world  to  perform,  beyond  mere 
enjoyment  or  the  maintenance  of  one's  own  existence, 
and  he  turned  away  calmer,  more  collected,  almost 
happier,  than  he  had  felt  for  many  a  day. 

Ten  years  passed  away,  bringing  about  their  strange 
revolutions  ;  ripening  youth  to  manhood,  and  tainting 
the  pride  and  vigor  of  maturity  with  decay  —  sweeping 
many  a  loved  one  from  our  hearth,  but  weaving  fresh 
ties  around  the  heart,  as  a  ruin  that  is  supported  by  the 
sweet  young  flowers  which  twine  there  ;  and  yet  the 
older  we  grow,  the  more  stubborn  are  such  tendrils, 
though,  if  they  do  enwreath  themselves,  it  is  with  ties 
that  can  scarcely  be  severed.  Ten  years,  then,  work- 
ing their  wondrous  changes,  had  passed  away,  when, 
on  a  bright  sunshine  morning,  a  stranger  arrived  at  one 
of  London's  regal-looking  hotels.  He  was  a  passenger 
from  India,  by  the  good  ship  Ariel,  and  there  came  in 
his  train  a  due  proportion  of  those  ponderous  packages 
and  chests  with  which  the  Anglo-Indians  very  properly 
encumber  themselves — perhaps  as  containing  a  sort  of 
ransom  money  with  which  to  buy  back  the  regard  and 
affection    of  which  absence  may  have  robbed    them. 

The  stranger  at  the ,  however,  had  few  friends  in 

England,  although  he  brought  home  several  chests;  one 
especially  the  cognoscenti  would  have  selected  at  a 
venture,  as  containing  the  most  precious  deposits, 
though  its  solid  black  leather  exterior  might  have 
seemed  unpretending  to  the  inexperienced.  Now,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  the  stranger  had  returned  to 
England  for  three  especial  reasons;  two  will  be  told 
presently,  the  other  was  to  find  a  wife  ;  and  the  '  black 


I0#  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

chest'  contained  gifts  for  this  imaginary  being  —  who, 
of  course,  would  be  worthy  to  be  robed  with  the  delicate 
filmy  muslins  of  Dacca  (fit  for  Titania  and  her  court), 
or  to  move  beneath  the  graceful  folds  of  the  soft  and 
peerless  Cashmere. 

But  we  must  return  to  the  little  old  gentleman,  men- 
tioned long  ago.  Ten  years  seemed  to  have  passed 
him  by  with  a  very  slight  and  friendly  greeting. 
There  sat  Sir  James  Howard,  so  very  like  his  former 
self,  that  one  might  have  fancied  the  suit  of  brown  he 
wore  was  the  identical  apparel  alluded  to  before  ;  per- 
haps a  very  keen  observer  might  have  remembered 
that,  ten  years  ago,  there  were  a  fe\V  dark  hairs  amid 
the  snow-drifts  of  time,  whereas  now  all  were  white ; 
perhaps,  too,  his  habitual  stoop  was  a  little  more  re- 
markable, and  his  hand  (that  great  test  of  age)  a  little 
more  wrinkled  ;  but  the  bright,  intelligent,  good  coun- 
tenance, seemed  just  the  same  as  ever.  His  house  was 
a  short  distance  from  London,  and  he  sat  in  a  favorite 
morning  room,  the  walls  of  which  were  decorated  with 
gems  of  art ;  books,  also,  were  there,  not  too  formally 
arranged ;  and  the  French  windows  opened  into  a 
flower-garden,  admitting  the  summer  breeze  laden  with 
sweets.  A  servant  entered  with  the  card  of '  Mr.  Henry 
Cummins,'  and  Sir  James  desiring  him  to  be  admitted, 
the  stranger  entered  the  room.  Simultaneously  with 
offering  his  apologies  for  intruding,  the  latter  glanced 
round  the  apartment,  while  an  anxious  expression 
gathered  upon  his  countenance. 

*  I  fear.  Sir  James,  I  am  scarcely  remembered,' 
exclaimed  Henry.  And  Sir  James  put  his  finger  to 
his  brow  as  if  to  invoke  recollection,  before  he  replied, 


THE    STOKY   OF   A   PICTURE.  197 

'  The  name  is  familiar  to  me,  though  I  cannot  exactly 
tell  how.' 

'  You  —  you  —  Sir  James,  you  purchased  a  picture 
that  once  belonged  to  me.' 

'  You !  Are  you  that  Mr.  Cummins .'''  rejoined  Sir 
James,  eyeing  his  visitor  from  top  to  toe,  with  a  look 
that  plainly  indicated  he  remembered  Henry's  early 
career,  and  the  circumstances  which  had  led  him  to 
predicate  that  the  ^scapegrace  '  must  turn  shoe-black.' 
That  could  not  have  been  the  occupation  of  the  gen- 
tlemanly, indeed  distinguished-looking,  person  now 
before  him  ;  and  Sir  James  recollecting,  with  the 
lightning  flash  of  thought,  every  particular  connected 
with  the  sale,  gave  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  object  of 
Henry  Cummins'  visit,  and  —  grew  a  little  out  of  tem- 
per. Yes,  as  faithful  historians,  we  must  confess  he 
felt  cross  ;  for,  as  the  sun  has  spots,  so  the  dear,  good, 
little,  old  gentleman  had  one  fault  —  he  was,  on  par- 
ticular subjects,  of  an  irritable  temper.  The  picture 
he  still  retained,  and  prized  highly.  Inclination  was 
at  war  with  the  promptings  of  his  own  kind,  warm, 
fresh,  evergreen  heart,  and  the  more  the  former  suc- 
cumbed, the  more  peevish  in  manner  did  he  grow. 

It  is  almost  needless  to  hint  that  the  object  of  Henry 
Cummins'  visit  was  to  regain  it  at  any  pecuniary  sacri- 
fice. He  was  a  proud  young  man,  and  yet  he  bore 
the  reproaches  with  meekness  which  Sir  James  could 
not  help  insinuating,  and  owned  his  errors  frankly. 
'  I  can  assure  you,  Sir  James,'  he  said, '  when  I  sought 
for  and  accepted  a  situation  in  India  from  an  old  friend 
of  my  father,  it  was  with  the  most  anxious  desire  to 
redeem  past  errors  —  errors  which,  I  may  take  leave 


199  ENGLISH   TAL£S    AND    SKETCHES. 

to  say,  were  of  the  head,  not  of  the  heart ;  and  in  all 
my  exertions  in  that  distant  field  of  enterprise,  I  was 
not  less  animated  by  repentant  feeling  than  by  the 
hope  and  belief  of  regaining  the  picture  which  fortune 
had  made  yours  ;  in  short,  that  picture  has  been  the 
soul  of  my  reformation.  I  am  now  blessed  with  the 
means  of  independence  ;  and  here,  then,  I  appear  with 
the  wish  to  gain  back  the  object  of  my  long-cherished 
desires.' 

Sir  James  was  not  unmoved  by  the  ingenuous 
appeal ;  but  he  was  inexorable.  Henry,  in  some 
respect,  felt  himself  to  be  ill-used  ;  yet  of  what  should 
he  complain  ?  Surely,  a  man  has  a  right  to  retain  the 
purchase  he  has  lawfully  made.  Although  continuing 
obdurate  to  all  offers,  Sir  James  had  the  condescension 
to  ask  his  visitor  to  walk  into  the  drawing-room  to  look 
at  the  picture.  Henry  followed,  trembling  ;  for  while 
it  was  unredeemed,  he  felt  the  painting  would  gaze 
upon  him  like  a  reproving  spirit.  There  it  was,  in  the 
centre  of  one  side  of  the  room,  and  provided  with  a 
new  and  gorgeous  frame;  the  light,  too,  was  most 
favorable.  What  memories  did  it  bring  back  to  the 
spendthrift's  mind  !  His  mother's  gentle  touch,  her 
loving  kiss  —  his  father's  counsel  —  the  voices  of  early 
friends  —  and  the  forms  of  all — and  scenes  of  long, 
long  ago  —  seemed  vividly  to  pass  before  him.  Like 
the  buried  cities  which  lay  for  centuries  at  the  vol- 
cano's foot,  so  there  are  thoughts  and  feelings  which 
rest  entombed  beneath,  not  destroyed  by,  the  lava 
ashes  of  time  and  circumstances.  .  To  his  heart  and 
fancy  the  figures  did  not  look  at  him  reproachfully  as 
he  had  expected  them  to  do,  but  seemed  to  wear  an 


THE    STORY    OF    A   PICTURE.  199 

expression  more  of  sorrow  than  of  anger,  and  he  felt 
that  he  would  have  given  much  to  be  alone  with  the 
picture  for  an  hour,  for  Sir  James  stood  by  him,  with 
his  arms  clasped  behind  as  formerly,  muttering  audi- 
bly, '  No,  I  will  never  sell  this  picture.' 

Poor  Henry  was  summoning  his  courage  for  the 
leave-taking,  and  gazing  like  a  lover  at  a  mistress  who 
could  never  be  his,  when  a  joyous  laugh,  evidently  pro- 
ceeding from  the  adjoining  room,  fell  upon  his  ear  ;  it 
jarred  upon  his  spirits,  and  seemed  almost  as  discordant 
as  that  he  well  remembered  ten  years  before.  The 
voice  and  laugh  were  peculiar,  and  he  felt  certain 
the  tiresome  child  was  near.  Of  course,  a  moment's 
thought  convinced  him  that  the  child  must  be  now  a 
woman ;  but  he  felt  almost  sure  she  had  red  hair,  had 
a  strong  impression  that  she  squinted,  and  associated 
her  as  well,  in  some  incongruous  manner,  with  a 
laughing  hyaena.  One  more  appeal  before  he  de- 
parted ;  it  was  this  : — '  Sir  James,  if  I  survive  you, 
will  you  direct  your  executors  to  sell  me  the  picture  ? 
or  will  you  give  me  the  power,  in  case  I  should  die 
first,  of  willing  it  into  my  family,  by  any  pecuniary 
arrangement  with  my  heirs  and  yours  which  you  may 
like  to  make  ?  ' 

'  Well,  perhaps,  it  may  be  yours  after  my  death.' 

And  so  they  parted. 

Poor  Henry  Cummins  returned  to  his  hotel  vexed 
and  disappointed.  He  had  taken  the  precaution  of 
leaving  his  address  with  Sir  James,  in  case  the  latter 
should  change  his  mind,  which  did  not,  however, 
appear  a  very  probable  event.  Out  of  spirits,  and 
perhaps  a  little  out  of  humor,  the  day  dragged  wearily 


ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

on.  In  the  evening  he  strolled  out  for  an  hour,  and 
bethought  himself  of  walking  down  the  street  in  which 
was  his  former  home.  The  old  house,  which  he  had 
left  bare  and  tenantless,  was  now  lit  up  for  a  party; 
it  seemed  as  if  everything  that  day  were  destined  to 
assume  an  uncongenial  unsympathizing  air  ;  and  he 
bent  his  steps  homeward  more  desponding  than  ever. 
On  his  arrival  he  found  a  huge  packing  case  in  his 
apartment,  and  a  note  from  Sir  James  Howard.  The 
eccentric  old  gentleman  kept  his  word  —  he  did  not 
sell  the  picture,  he  gave  it  to  a  reformed  spendthrift ! 
Yes,  there  it  was,  and  in  the  old  frame  too.  To  be 
sure,  some  people  might  have  hinted  that  the  hand- 
some one  was  reserved  for  another  favorite,  but  they 
would  have  done  Sir  James  injustice.  He  knew  human 
nature  well,  and  he  knew  that  the  kindly  feeling  dis- 
played in  the  preservation  and  recollection  even  of  an 
old  picture-frame  would  not  be  lost  on  the  heart  of 
Henry  Cummins. 

Our  space  forbids  us  to  describe  minutely  Henry 
Cummins'  second  visit  to  Sir  James  Howard  ;  how  the 
cheerful  aspect  of  the  different  apartments  failed  now 
to  oppress  or  deject  him  ;  or  how  even  a  certain  laugh 
seemed  musical.  But  the  second  visit  was  not  the  last, 
for  the  reformed  spendthrift  had  won  an  eccentric  but 
sincere  and  lasting  friend.  He  was  introduced  to  Julia, 
and  assuredly  there  was  nothing  about  her  to  recall  his 
former  unfavorable  impression.  Her  eyes  were  as 
straight  as  his  own,  (and  they  were  rather  handsome 
ones,)  but  of  the  deep  blue  of  a  violet,  and  her  hair 
of  that  sunny  brown  that  even  '  an  enemy'  would  call 
auburn.     They  became  intimate,  and  Henry  grew  to 


THE    STORY    OF    A    PICTURE.  201 

delight  in  the  rich  voice  and  joyous  laugh ;  and  Julia 
had  a  heart,  and  could  weep  sometimes  : 

•  For  the  heart  which  is  soonest  alive  to  the  flowers, 
Is  always  the  first  to  be  touched  by  the  thorns.' 

One  day  he  sat  beside  her  at  the  piano,  and  remark- 
ing (not  for  the  first  time)  that  her  hands  were  whiter 
than  the  ivory,  he  bethought  him  of  a  certain  dia- 
mond which  was  in  the  'black  chest'  among  other 
unset  gems,  and  he  was  sure  it  could  never  find  so  fit 
a  home  as  on  one  of  those  snowy  fingers.  It  was 
presented  —  accepted;  and  as  the  chest  was  opened, 
he  found,  among  other  half-forgotten  treasures,  an 
ivory  work-box,  looking  as  if  it  belonged  to  her ;  there 
was  room  for  her  name  on  it,  and  he  thought  of  having 
Julia  Howard  engraven,  but  he  recollected  she  might 
marry,  and  so  the  blank  space  remained.  In  another 
week  some  other  thought  caused  the  black  chest  to  be 
again  inspected  ;  but  when  he  came  to  close  it,  the 
contents  had  been  so  much  disturbed,  that  without  re- 
moving an  embroidered  cashmere,  the  lid  loould  remain 
♦obstinately  gaping.  He  took  out  the  cashmere,  paused 
for  a  moment,  smiled,  as  if  some  agreeable  thought 
occurred  for  the  first  time  —  and  —  and  Decca  muslins, 
cashmeres,  boxes,  fans,  card-cases,  attar,  chains,  rings, 
unset  diamonds,  &c.  &c.,  found  but  one  mistress.  In 
less  than  three  months  from  that  day,  more  pretty 
things  than  one  were  engraved  —  Julia  Cummins. 
Thus  were  two  of  the  ardent  wishes  of  Henry  Cum- 
mins accomplished,  and  the  third  was  in  his  own 
power  to  fulfil.  Although  the  career  in  India,  which 
had  blessed  him  with  an  ample  fortune,  had  unfitted 
him  to  pursue  the  study  of  the  law,  he  understood  that 


202  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

conduct  sheds  as  much  lustre  on  a  family  as  the  display 
of  talents  :  that  was  in  his  power  ;  and  if  vanity  is 
sometimes  pained  by  the  recollection  of  the  name  he 
might  have  won,  he  owns  that  the  punishment  is  just, 
though,  while  he  regrets  the  past,  he  feels  gratefully, 
happy  that  he  has  redeemed  it.  So  true  is  it  that 
*  there  is  a  future  to  all  who  have  the  virtue  to  repent 
and  the  energy  to  atone.' 


WORKING    GENTLEWOMEN. 

Most  country  houses  —  I  mean  those  spacious  and 
commodious  dwellings  which  descend  from  generation 
to  generation  in  the  families  of  the  wealthy  classes  — 
have  their  picture  galleries  ;  and  I  scarcely  know  any- 
thing more  suggestive  of  touching  memories  and 
dreamy  speculations  than  the  contemplation  of  the 
portraits  they  contain.  One  has  generally  some  scanty 
knowledge  of  the  names  and  histories  of  the  originals, 
just  enough  to  pique  curiosity  without  satisfying  it, 
and  the  mind  insensibly  wanders  into  the  vague  re- 
gions of  fancy.  Through  this  cloud-land,  however, 
which  bridges  the  past  and  the  present,  we  soon  pass; 
and  if  we  are  inclined  to  take  a  common  sense  view 
of  things  in  general,  we  shall  arrive  at  many  just  con- 
clusions, none  the  less  just  and  true  that  we  may  be 
ignorant  of  actual  details. 

That  stately  dame  who  flourished  in  the  days  of  the 
powdered  peruke,  black  patch,  and  formidable  farthin- 
gale —  notwithstanding  the  most  absurd  dress  which 
ever  disfigured  humanity  —  looks  what  she  was,  a 
devoted  wife  and  affectionate  mother.  A  certain  soft- 
ness in  the  eyes,  and  a  few  lines  about  the  mouth, 
# 


204  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

predispose  us  to  like  her  ;  and  we  are  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  hear,  that  she  could  hardly  be  reckoned  a 
woman  of  fashion  in  her  dissipated  day,  for  she  went 
to  court  seldom,  and  neither  gambled,  nor  disagreed 
with  her  husband.  She  was  one  of  Napoleon's  'great 
women,'  being  the  mother  of  a  large  family,  six  sons 
and  five  daughters.  They  all  married,  and  some  what 
the  world  calls  '  badly.'  The  '  Hall '  and  lands 
passed  to  the  oldest  son,  and  are  still  owned  by  his 
descendant.  The  appanage  for  her  younger  children 
was  but  scanty  ;  the  tide  of  fortune  ebbed  from  some, 
and  flowed  towards  others  ;  and  the  great-great-grand- 
children of  that  stately  lady  are  scattered  over  the 
world,  removed  from  each  other  less  —  far  less  by 
mountains  and  oceans,  than  by  the  difference  of  their 
stations  ! 

The  destiny  of  Men  rests  so  much  on  their  own 
energy  and  abilities,  that  —  subject  to  a  few  distress- 
ing exceptions —  it  may  be  taken  as  a  rule,  that  they 
mount  the  wheel  of  fort  me  according  as  they  pos- 
sess those  qualities  :  but  Women  are  so  differently 
constituted,  that,  when  suddenly  thrown  into  the  vor- 
tex of  the  world  to  struggle  for  existence,  they  are 
often  the  most  estimable  who  first  sink  in  the  conflict. 

Among  the  startling  contrasts  which  meet  us  at 
every  turn  of  our  social  existence,  I  know  not  one 
more  striking  than  the  difference  between  the  posi- 
tion of  a  young  girl  in  the  middle  station  of  life,  sup- 
ported by  her  parents,  enjoying  all  the  pleasures  and 
privileges  of  a  home,  yet  toiling  scarcely  more  than 
the  '  lilies  of  the  field,'  and  the  condition  of  one, 
who,  belonging  to  the  same  sphere,  nurtured  in  the 


WORKING   GENTLEWOMEN.  205 

same  manner,  educated  on  the  same  system,  is  com- 
pelled in  the  untried  season  of  youth,  in  the  blooming 
period  of  her  existence,  to  encounter  the  frowns  of 
the  world,  and  wrest  her  daily  bread  from  its  iron 
grasp.  Let  us  dwell  on  the  two  pictures  for  a  little 
while,  and  try  to  exclude  all  cross  lights  of  false  sen- 
timent, that  would  obscure  our  vision  and  warp  our 
judgment. 

I  am  afraid  we  must  confess  that  the  seeming  hap- 
piness of  the  one  is  often  less  real  than  the  calm  of  a 
lethargy,  and  less  secure  than  the  dwelling  -of  him 
who  builds  on  the  smiling  side  of  a  volcano.  Too 
many  old  '  school  people '  think  that  ignorance  of 
evil,  and  indifference  to  the  wide  world  beyond  her 
own  narrow  circle,  are  the  best  palladium  for  a  young 
woman's  respectability  and  well-being ;  but  even  if 
they  were  so  —  which  we  do  not  allow  —  this  protec- 
tion could  not  last  for  ever  ;  and  the  longer  error  and 
ignorance  cling  to  us,  the  harder  are  they  to  part  from, 
thus  revenging  truth  and  knowledge  when  we  slight 
their  precious  teachings. 

The  end  and  aim  of  a  girl's  life  is  not,  surely,  to 
work  Berlin  slippers,  play  indifferently  on  the  piano, 
sing  out  of  tune,  draw  out  a  perspective,  read  bad 
novels  (there  can  be  no  objection  to  good  ones)  over 
the  fire  in  winter,  and  on  the  Ramsgate  sands  in  sum- 
mer ;  and  to  consider  it  an  extreme  point  of  useful- 
ness to  hem  her  brother's  handkerchiefs,  trim  her  own 
straw  bonnet,  and  write,  by  '  Mamma's '  directions, 
notes  of  invitation,  when  necessary. 

Vaguely,  much  too  vaguely  for  her  to  reason  on,  or 
describe  her  emotions,  the  young  girl  is  conscious  of 


206  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

the  fact,  and  would  be  less  content  were  it  not  for  the 
expectation  of  a  future  —  this  future  being,  almost 
invariably,  Marriage.  Very  rational  is  this  expecta- 
tion, for  by  far  the  larger  proportion  of  women  do 
marry  ;  but  destiny  holds  a  few  single ;  and  if  a  more 
enlightened  system  than  generally  prevails  were  pur- 
sued, the  latter  would  have  more  resources  in  their  lone- 
liness, and  wives  would  come  to  their  new  duties  and 
new  positions  with  infinite  advantages.  Injudicious  mar- 
riages, too,  would  often  be  avoided  ;  a  mind  occupied 
with  duties  or  pursuits  that  ennoble  or  expand  it,  is  not 
very  likely  to  be  the  slave  of  a  sudden  or  unworthy 
passion  ;  and  though  it  is  doubtless  very  unromantic 
to  say  so,  the  most  enduring  attachments  are  certainly 
those  which  the  reason  and  judgment  approve. 

The  striking  contrast  to  which  I  have  alluded  is 
that  between  the  too  often  listless,  half  occupied  ex- 
istence of  the  '  young  lady,'  who  chases  ennui  by  a 
course  of  trifling  pleasures,  which  very  soon  pall  on 
superior  natures,  and,  on  the  contrary,  become  to  infe- 
rior ones  a  necessary  of  life  —  and  the  too  responsible, 
too  active,  too  energetic  life  of  the  gently-nurtured 
girl,  whom  adversity  drives  into  the  world  to  earn  her 
own  living  in  any  of  those  positions  which  cus'om  has 
made  hard  and  false.  The  falseness  or  hardness  of 
these  positions  is  quite  of  modern  growth.  Two  or 
there  generations  back,  families  of  a  certain  standing 
—  probably  because  they  were  much  fewer  in  number 
than  they  are  at  the  present  day  —  had  a  kind  of  pride, 
a  sort  of  remnant  of  past  chivalry,  which  precluded  the 
female  members  from  undertaking  any  toil  for  which 
a  pecuniary  return  was  to  be  expected.    It  was  thought 


WORKING   GENTLEWOMEN.  207 

no  obligation,  no  degradation,  to  receive  eleemosy- 
nary aid  from  a  distant  kinsman,  rather  than  sub- 
mit to  labor  which  a  false  pride  called  '  shameful.' 
Of  course,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  same  feeling  pre- 
vails in  the  upper  ranks  of  the  middle  classes  at  the 
present  day  ;  but  it  is  much  more  circumscribed  in  its 
limits  than  it  was  formerly.  People  in  excellent  cir- 
cumstances, moving  in  most  intelligent  and  agreeable 
circles,  belonging  to  different  grades  of  the  legal  and 
medical  professions,  merchants,  and  many  others,  are 
not,  consequently,  pretenders,  even  to  high  birth,  or 
endowed  with  these  hereditary  notions  of  family  pride. 

It  is  quite  common  to  find  the  near  female  relatives 
of  such  persons  fighting  the  battle  of  life  on  their 
own  account,  under  disadvantages  and  discomforts  that 
are  all  the  harder  to  endure,  because  but  little  appa- 
rent to  any,  save  the  initiated. 

Suppose  a  family  of  three;  —  the  brother  enters 
business  early,  and  prospers  to  some  degree  in  it ;  and 
the  prettier  of  two  sisters  marries  a  year  before  her 
father's  death, — just  in  time  to  be  comfortably  settled 
before  the  crash  comes  which  flings  her  sister  penni- 
less on  the  world.  For  the  father  lived  up  to  his 
income,  and  had  neglected  to  insure  his  life.  They 
two,  who 

'  Slept  together, 

Eose  at  one  instant,  learned,  play'd,  eat  together,' 

through  the  years  of  childhood  and  youth,  are  now 
parted  in  their  destinies,  like  two  plants,  the  one  of 
which  is  sheltered  in  a  hot-house,  and  tended  with 
care,  and  the  other  left  to  trail  on  the  bleak  ground, 
and  seek'sustenance  as  it  can,  exposed  to  everj-  biting 


208  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

blast.  If  it  weather  the  winter  storms,  it  is  true  the 
latter  may  bear  richer  fruit,  though  not  such  showy 
blossoms  as  its  favored  fellow  ;  but  that  little  word, 
if!  —  what  hopes  and  expectations  in  life  hang  upon 
it! 

It  would  be  unfair  to  blame  the  more  fortunate  sister, 
or  impute  to  her  want  of  kindness  and  affection  ;  she 
probably  gives  the  other  exactly  the  same  sort  of  sym- 
pathy which  would  have  been  bestowed  on  herself,  had 
their  fortunes  been  reversed.  Both  brother  and  married 
sister  have  new  ties,  stronger  and  dearer  than  the  old 
ones  ;  but  they  do  what  they  can.  There  are  bed  and 
board  until  the  forlorn  one  procures  remunerative  occu- 
pation, and  whenever  she  may  obtain  a  holiday,  or  be 
out  of  a  situation ;  little  presents  sometimes,  when  other 
claims  have  not  squeezed  the  purse  quite  empty  ;  and 
more  real  interest  in  her  well-being  is  expressed  and 
shown,  than,  in  all  probability,  she  will  find  existing 
in  the  heart  of  any  other  human  being.  They  will  be 
lenient  in  their  judgment  of  her  fauhs,  flattering  in 
their  opinion  of  her  abilities,  and  ready  to  take  her  part 
when  she  is  wrong ;  everybody,  be  they  just  people, 
will  defend  us  when  we  are  right. 

Far  be  it  however,  from  me,  in  the  picture  I  am 
attempting  to  sketch,  to  insinuate  that  there  must,  or 
should  be,  hardship  in  a  gentlewoman  exerting  herself, 
by  her  mind  or  by  her  hands,  as  the  means  of  an  hon- 
orable and  independent  existence.  On  the  contrary, 
there  is  a  beautiful  truth  in  the  old  Latin  proverb  that 
*  Labor  is  Worship  ; '  and  we  may  depend  upon  it, 
that  the  struggling  women  of  the  nineteenth  century 
are,  with  the   rarest  possible  exceptions,  far  nobler 


WORKING   GENTLEWOMEN.  209 

beings  than  were  the  damsels  of  the  olden  time,  who 
were  themes  for  the  troubadour's  lays,  and  the  victor's 
prize  at  the  tilt  and  tournament.  They  ought  to  have 
the  reward  of  this  true  nobility,  in  the  world's  honor 
and  respect  for  their  vocations,  and  in  individual  com- 
petence and  happiness. 

An  error  which  often  leads  to  much  misery  rests  in 
the  apathy  and  improvidence  of  parents,  who  are  con- 
tent to  enjoy  their  daughters'  society  ;  to  indulge  their 
own  instinct  —  not  principle  —  of  benevolence,  by  be- 
stowing on  them  many  personal  gratifications  which 
enervate  and  disincline  them  from  those  habits  of  in- 
dustry and  activity  of  mind  which  would  preserve  them 
from  ennui  far  more  effectually  than  do  evening  par- 
ties, morning  visits,  or  their  endless  variety  of  trifling 
employments; — habits  of  occupation  which  would  at 
the  same  time  brace  and  enlarge  the  mind,  and  fit  it  for 
that  encounter  which  is  before  them  in  the  future. 

The  gentlewoman  cast  adrift  on  her  own  resources, 
usually,  and  very  naturally,  seeks  to  render  her  accom- 
plishments and  acquirements  available  by  imparting 
them  to  others  ;  and  according  to  their  extent  and 
solidity  is  she  of  course  likely  to  be  successful.  But  if 
she  have  not  '  kept  them  up  '  since  her  school-days 
ceased,  with  more  than  ordinary  diligence,  she  will 
have  a  sad  lesson  to  learn  ;  and  '  keeping  up '  really 
means  progressing  ;  for  there  is  no  disguising  the  fact 
that  systems  of  education  are  improving  every  day  ; 
and  what  would  have  been  thought  in  advance  of  the 
throng  seven  years  ago,  may  be  now  decidedly  in  the 
rear.  She  will  find  the  mother,  or  '  musical  friend,' 
of  the  fafhily  she  desires  to  instruct,  a  very  different 
14 


210  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

critic  from  her  brother's  friends,  who  hung  over  the 
piano  with  gestures  of  delight,  and  vied  with  each  other 
for  the  honor  of  turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  music- 
book  ;  her  port-folio  of  drawings  will  be  coldly  and 
curiously  scanned,  and  will  not  elicit  any  of  the 
hyperbole  compliments  which  similar  productions  had 
won,  when  they  appeared  in  the  albums  of  her  ac- 
quaintances ;  the  accent  of  her  French  will  be  at  best 
a  disputed  point ;  and  questions  in  grammar  and  geog- 
raphy will  be  asked  her,  which,  under  other  circum- 
stances, would  be  decidedly  impertinent. 

Perhaps  what  tends  more  than  anything  else  to  ren- 
der the  situation  of  a  governess  or  teacher  —  becom- 
ing such  under  the  circumstances  I  have  indicated  — 
peculiarly  distressing,  or  at  best  unsatisfactory,  is  the 
fact,  that  after  all  her  exertions,  and  with  all  her 
readiness  to  make  necessary  sacrifices,  she  is  unable 
to  compete  with  the  young  woman  who  has  been 
educated  for  the  express  purpose  of  becoming  an 
instructress,  and  to  whom  the  position  is  sometimes  a 
rise  in  life,  looked  forward  to  as  a  point  of  ambition.  It 
is  one  thing  to  possess  the  knowledge  and  accomplish- 
ments which  pass  pleasantly  current  in  society,  and 
quite  another  to  have  the  deep  and  thorough  under- 
standing of  them  necessary  to  impart  instruction,  or  to 
have  the  habit  and  method  of  teaching. 

When  penury  comes  to  a  single  woman  in  the 
middle  station  of  life,  it  is  to  teaching  that  she  almost 
invariably  turns  her  attention  ;  and  how  fortunate  does 
it  prove,  if,  instead  of  having  frittered  away  her  time  in 
senseless  pleasures,  she  has  strengthened  her  under- 
standing and  cultivated  her  mind  in  the  pUst  bright 


WOHKING   GENTLEWOMEN.  211 

years  of  beautiful  leisure.  Better  still  if  she  has  cher- 
ished the  kindly  sympathies  of  her  nature  in  the  day 
of  her  seeming  prosperity,  and  won  the  hearts  of  warm 
and  loving  friends  to  comfort  her. 

Many  gentlewomen  in  London  there  are,  who,  with- 
out attempting  to  instruct,  eke  out  an  existence  by 
various  unsuspected  means.  Wood-engraving,  we  be- 
lieve, is  executed  to  some  extent  by  ladies  ;  and  many 
of  the  best  specimen  patterns  of  fancy- work  come  from 
their  hands.  It  would  be  well  if  there  were  many 
more  legitimate  occupations  open  for  them.  Mean- 
while, there  are  myriads  of  persons  who  have  it  in 
their  power  to  ameliorate  the  condition  of  individuals 
among  the  '  working  gentlewomen,'  yet  neglect  to  do 
so  from  sheer  thoughtlessness.  One  of  these,  for 
instance,  is  the  mother  of  young  daughters,  who  proves 
inconsiderate  and  exacting  towards  their  governess  ; 
who  does  not  reflect  how  oppressive  must  be  the  mono- 
tony of  her  life  —  how  depressing  the  perpetual  com- 
panionship of  children,  agreeable  as  a  due  proportion 
of  it  is  to  most  persons  ;  who  forgets  how  lonely  she 
too  often  is  in  the  bosom  of  a  large  family  ;  how  the 
word  *  home '  is  to  her  a  mockery,  the  nearest  faint 
resemblance  to  her  of  that  reality  being  the  midnight 
solitude  of  her  fireless  attic.  Of  course,  there  are  ex- 
ceptions to  this  rule  of  suffering,  but  I  much  fear  they 
are  too  few. 

If  not  tried  too  long  —  if  sorrow  has  not  broken  their 
spirits  and  soured  their  tempers  —  struggling  women 
ought  to  make  the  best  wives  in  the  world.  A  know- 
ledge of  life  will  be  theirs  no  other  teaching  could  have 
bestowed*;  a  habit  of  forbearance,  too,  and  gratitude 


212  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

for  small  kindnesses,  which  in  the  hour  of  proud  pros- 
perity would  have  been  taken  as  a  right.  I  sometimes 
speculate  on  the  inner  life,  the  heart's  history  of  such 
women ;  too  often,  for  their  own  peace,  are  they 
found  clinging  to  a  shadow,  and  losing  the  substance 
—  worshipping  a  vision,  and  treating  some  genuine 
love  with  scorn.  The  hour  of  suffering  —  of  penury, 
is  the  one  that  tests  the  true  lover  ;  and  if  it  have  not 
the  power  to  draw  from  him  whom  she  wishes  to  be- 
lieve so,  the  acknowledgment  which  should  bind  her  to 
him,  the  sooner  she  expels  from  its  throne  the  creature 
of  her  imagination  the  better  for  her  own  peace. 


MRS.  SMITH  AND  MRS.  BROWN. 


A   DOMESTIC    DIALOUGE. 

Time  —  Morning,  July,  1851. 
Scene  —  No.  7,  Victoria   Terrace,  near  London. 

[Mrs.  Smith  having  allowed  her  cook  to  go  to  the  Exhibition,  allows  her  house- 
maid to  be  generally  busy  in  departments  not  usually  pertaining  to  the 
•  neat-handed '  Sarah  ;  while  Mrs.  Smith  herself,  in  morning  dress,  and 
remarkably  pretty  cap,  dusts  china  ornaments  in  her  'own  sweet  little  draw- 
ing-room,' pulls  down  Venetian  blinds  to  spare  her  Axminster,  and  arranges 
softly  and  lovingly  a  few  books  on  an  ornamental  table  :  but  she  loiters  in 
a  manner  that  a  deputy-housemaid  ought  not  to  do,  dipping  into  the  lovely 
illustrated  '  Evangeline'  for  full  five  minutes,  still  standing,  but  resting  first 
on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  as  little  girls  are  always  scolded  for 
doing,  and  dropping  into  a  chair,  when  in  the  dusting  she  glances  at  a  page 
of  the  '  Casa  Guidi  Windows,'  that  had  not  struck  her  with  its  full  force 
before.  A  patter  of  little  feet  is  heard  ;  the  book  is  closed,  and  enter  Susan 
,  the  nurse-maid,  equipped  for  walking  with  Master  Willy  and  Miss  Katey, 
aged  respectively  four  and  two  years.  Bright  eyes,  soft  rosy  cheeks, 
silken,  curly  locks,  streaming  beneath  large  sun-shading  Leghorn  hats  ; 
short  full  skirts,  and  little  Katey's  coquettish  cazaweck,  and  snowy-white 
socks  and  coal-black  polished  leather  shoes,  must  be  shown  to  paint  their 
picture.  Several  demonstrative  hugs  bt'tween  mother  and  children,  some- 
what to  the  detriment  of  Mrs.  Smith's  cap,  are  accompanied  by  crowing 
laughter  —  '  Dood-by,  mamma  ;  dood-by  !  Tusan  take  us  to  see  the  subaii  ; 
and  such  a  nice  walk  !  Dood-by  ! '  And  the  four  impatient  little  feet  scam- 
per away;  Mrs  Smith,  watching  them  out  of  the  gate,  as  she  peers  between 
the  bars  of  the  blind  Then  with  a  sudden  thought  she  unrolls  some  new 
music,  opens  the  piano,  and  with  the  manner  of  a  brilliant  player  when 
trying  a  strange  piece,  repeats  one  or  two  '  queer  '  passages  three  or  four 
times.  A  sharp  double  knock  is  heard,  and  the  busy  Sarah  shows  in  Mrs. 
Brown :  civil  neighborly  greetings  ensue.] 


214  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Mrs.  Brown.  I  heard  the  piano  going,  and  so  judged 
you  would  see  me,  though  it  is  hardly  ten  o'clock  ;  but 
neighbors  ought  to  be  neighborly ;  and  as  I  said  to  Mr. 
Brown,  I  was  sure  if  you  could  help  me  you  would. 

Mrs.  Smith.  I  am  sure  anything  I  can  do — 

Mrs.  B.  Oh,  what  a  difference.  [^Looking  round 
with  envious  admiration.]  You  can  sit  down  in  com- 
fort to  music  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  S.  It  is  not  my  usual  time  for  playing,  but  my 
husband  brought  me  home  some  new  quadrilles  and 
a  polka  last  night ;  and  as  we  are  going  to  a  little 
carpet  dance  to-night,  where  I  may  be  useful,  I  thought 
I  would  try  them  over.  But  what  is  it  that  I  can  do  for 
you,  Mrs.  Brown  ? 

Mrs.  B.  [Sighing.]  My  dear,  you  are  a  young 
wife  —  not  married  above  five  or  six  years  —  and  you 
have  had  the  luck  to  have  treasures  (trebly  italicised) ; 
but  as  for  me,  servants  are  my  torments.  I  sent  off 
the  whole  pack  last  night,  and  have  only  a  horrid  char- 
woman in  the  house.  Does  your  cook  know  of  any 
friend  she  can  recommend  ?  That  is  what  I  wanted  to 
ask  you. 

Mrs.  S.  I  hardly  think  it  likely,  but  I  will  ask  Sarah 
if  she  knows  any  one.  Cook  is  not  at  home ;  she  is 
gone  to  the  Exhibition. 

Mrs.  B.  What,  again  !  Then  it  was  she  that  I  saw 
so  smart  getting  into  the  omnibus.  Well,  I  must  say 
you  spoil  them. 

Mrs.  S.  [Smiling.]  And  yet  I  get  on  remarkably 
well.  It  is  Cook's  third  visit,  I  actually  sent  her  to- 
day because  she  had  neglected  to  go  over  the  Model 
Lodging  Houses,  and  I  wished  her  so  much  to  see 
them. 


MRS.    SMITH    AND    MRS.    BROWN.  215 

Mrs.  B.  My  dear  Mrs.  Smith,  what  could  it  signify  ? 

Mrs.  S.  A  good  deal,  I  think.  However,  I  do  not 
wonder  at  the  omission,  as  I  believe  on  the  first  occa- 
sion she  had  no  eyes  for  anything  except  the  kitchen- 
ranges  ;  her  account  of  which  interested  me  particu- 
larly. I  know,  with  all  my  Friday  and  Saturday  visits, 
/have  not  found  them  out  yet. 

Mrs.  B.  Is  it  possible  you  talk  to  your  servants  in 
this  way  .'' 

Mrs.  S.  Why  not  ?  I  assure  you  we  always  consider 
our  servants  as  humble  friends,  and  interest  ourselves 
in  all  that  concerns  them. 

Mrs.  B.  But  you  wouldn't  if  you  had  such  wretches 
as  I  have  to  deal  with.  Why,  in  eight  months  I  have 
had  five  cooks,  three  house-maids,  and  four  little  imps 
in  buttons  :  they  have  nearly  broken  my  heart,  and 
quite  made  differences  between  Mr.  Brown  and  me  ; 
and  it  has  been  so  all  my  life.  Oh,  Mrs.  Smith,  how 
do  you  manage  ;  and  where  did  you  get  your  servants 
from  .? 

Mrs.  S.  I  hardly  remember  how  I  procured  them ; 
through  some  ordinary  channel  of  recommendation,  I 
believe  ;  and  I  know  I  received  excellent  characters, 
which  experience  has  convinced  me  they  deserved. 
In  fact,  I  would  not  engage  a  servant  unless  her  ap- 
pearance, acquirements,  and  general  recommendation 
were  an  earnest  that  she  would  suit.  Then,  when  one 
has  a  good  servant,  kindness  and  consideration,  with 
fair  wages,  will  always  keep  her.  In  fact,  I  believe 
kindness  is  thought  more  of  than  wages  by  many  ; 
though  we  are  of  opinion  that  servants  ought  to  receive 
good  wages  —  enough  to  lay  by  for  their  old  age. 


'816  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Mrs.  B.  But  they  never  do.  It  all  goes  in  finery, 
and  that  is  what  I  will  not  allow  ;  it  was  a  quarrel 
about  a  bonnet  ribbon  that  made  me  part  with  Mauy  at 
last.  I  put  up  with  her  impudence  for  four  months,  but 
couldn't  endure  it  any  longer. 

Mrs.  S.  Certain  limits  are  no  doubt  desirable  ;  but 
a  thoroughly  good  and  happy  servant  usually  saves 
from  her  wages,  and  generally  has  sense  enough  not 
to  dress  absurdly.  I  do  not  care  how  good  my  ser- 
vants' clothes  are,  both  for  the  sake  of  their  appearance 
and  for  economy,  knowing  well  that  cheap  things  are 
always  the  dearest  in  the  end. 

Mrs.  B.  [Shaking  her  head  with  the  wisdom  of 
forty-five  addressing  the  inexperience  of  twenty -eight. "^ 
I  see  we  shall  never  agree.  I  don't  know  what  the 
world  is  coming  to.  Now  there's  the  postman,  I  should 
not  wonder  if  there  are  letters  for  the  kitchen  as  well 
as  for  you. 

Mrs.  S.  Very  likely,  for  the  servants  have  all  rela- 
tions in  the  country. 

Enter  Sarah,  with  a  letter  for  Mrs.  Smith,  and 
another  in  her  hand.' 

Mrs.  B.  [  To  Mrs.  Smith.]  May  I  ask  her  ? 

Mrs.  S.  I  was  just  going  to  do  so.  [To  the  house- 
maid.] Sarah,  Mrs.  Brown  wants  a  cook,  do  you  know 
of  one  ? 

Sarah.  I  think  I  do.  [Hesitates  and  stammers.]  That 
is,  no,  I  am  afraid  the  young  person  I  was  thinking  of, 
would  not  suit  you,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  B.  Not  suit  me,  Sarah  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Is  she  honest,  clean,  sober  ?     A  good  cook  ? 


MRS.    SMITH    AND    MRS.    BROAVN.  217 

\    Sarah.  [Indignant  for  her  friend.]  Oh,  yes,  ma'am, 
uxt  —  but  perhaps  she  would  not  do. 

Mrs.  B.  Why  not  ? 

Strah.  You  see,  ma'am,  it  would  be  such  a  dreadful 
thing'f  she  didn't  suit,  to  lose  a  five  years'  character, 
and  ony  leaving  because  her  master  has  lost  money, 
and  is  reducing  his  establishment ;  and  she  wants  to 
stay  with  \alf  wages,  only  he  won't  let  her,  and  so  she 
is  teaching 'he  eldest  daughter  to  know  about  cooking  ; 
and  so,  ma'an,  she  couldn't  leave  yet,  and  of  course 
you  couldn't  \Viit.  No,  I  don't  know  any  servant  I  am 
sure  that  I  shoud  like  to  recommend. 

Mrs.  B.  [WiCh  a  half  glimmer  that  Sarah  does 
know  of  a  *■  treasure^  hut  ioon''t  consign  her  to  No.  5.] 
Oh,  very  well,  I  dorit  wish  it  to  be  considered  a  favor. 

Sarah.  Of  course  n^t,  ma'am. 

[Sarah  \ourtesys,  and  leaves  the  room. 

Mrs.  S.  [Almost  timiO^.]  If  it  would  not  be  con- 
sidered presumptuous  in  me,  so  much  younger  a 
housekeeper,  to  give  advice,  \  would  say  to  you,  when 
you  can  succeed  in  procuring  good  servants,  to  try 
the  plan  of  treating  them  indulgently.  They  are  our 
fellow-creatures  —  with  the  sam6, hope's  and  desires, 
failings  and  weaknesses,  and  infirn^ties  of  temper  — 
we  must  not  expect  perfection  —  and^f  we  show  them 
sympathy,  it  is  astonishing  the  influence^ 

Mrs.  B  [Decidedly  tartly.]  Now  I  kn^w  what  you 
are  going  to  say  ;  but  I  never  will  give  in  tc those  new- 
fangled notions.  I  won't  allow  followers,  a»d  I  won't 
allow  letter  scribbling  ;  and  what  I  say  in  ^y  own 
house  shall  be  done,  and  I  won't  be  answered  by  avnjnx; 
and  if  I  choose  a  thing  to  be  done  one  way  one  -lay, 


SI8 


ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 


and  another  way  another,  what's  that  to  them  ?  Whft 
business  have  they  to  say  that  I  don't  know  my  ovn 
mind,  and  begin  to  cry,  and  to  talk  about  their  ciar- 
acters  ? 

Mrs.  S.  [A  little  warmly.]  Oh,  Mrs.  BrowO)  anger 
often  terrifies  a  timid  girl,  not  naturally  dull,iixo  seem- 
ing stupidity  and  obstinacy.  I  pity  them  from  my 
heart ;  and  I  deeply  feel  a  mistress  has  gra'C  responsi- 
bilities towards  her  female  servants.  Ser'itude  at  best 
is  an  abandonment  of  liberty,  and  mus^  bring  many 
trials ;  how  cruel  of  us  to  make  it  neeilessly  bitter  by 
our  caprices  and  exactions.  And  or  the  other  hand, 
what  a  happiness  it  is  to  feel  oneself  served  from 
affection  as  well  as  duty.  I  speai  from  experience  : 
our  household  is  a  household  of  l^ve  ;  these  walls  have 
never  echoed  to  an  angry  reprcof — there  is  no  fear, 
there  is  no  deception  in  the  iouse  ;  and  I  believe  our 
servants  feel  it  to  be  their  /iome ;  it  always  gladdens 
me  when  I  hear  them  call  it  so. 

Mrs.  B.  It  is  all  ve^y  fine,  but  how  do  you  know 
that  you  are  not  cheat'd  ? 

Mrs.  S.  From  miny  circumstances,  besides  my 
own  faith  in  those  about  me.  I  give  you  one  for  ex- 
ample :  I  know  t^at  our  expenses  are  nearly  a  hun- 
dred a  year  le^s  than  those  of  many  friends  who 
appear  to  livc-nore  plainly.  But  all  in  the  house  draw 
together  to  Jivoid  waste,  and  all  act  without  separate 
interests.  The  servants  themselves  are  like  sisters,  and 
help  onf  another  —  as  is  the  case  to-day  —  in  affec- 
tionate fellowship.  If  I  give  one  of  them  a  holiday,  I 
scarcely  know  the  difference  in  the  house.  I  know 
people  say  I  have  been  particularly  '  fortunate  ; '    but 


MRS.    SMITH    MRS.    BROWN.  219 

is  it  not  strange,  dear  Mrs.  Brown,  that  one  person 
should  have  all  the  bad  servants,  and  another  all  the 
good  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Not  at  all,  if  you  give  them  high  wages, 
and  let  them  have  their  own  way. 

Mrs.  S.  Not  their  own  way  unless  it  is  my  way 
also.  I  assure  you  I  am  extremely  particular,  but  then 
we  are  also  very  regular  in  our  habits;  and  knowing 
myself  that  I  dearly  like  to  be  praised  when  I  do 
well,  why  I  give  praise  to  those  about  me  when  they 
deserve  it. 

Mrs.  B.  [  Rising  and  with  a  Burleigh  shake  of  the 
head.]     They  won't  bear  it. 

Mrs.  Si  Oh,  yes,  they  will  —  do  try  just  for  three 
months,  with  your  next  set  of  servants.  But  don't  go 
yet ;  here  come  the  '  trots '  from  their  walk  —  you 
must  see  them. 

[Enter  Susan  and  the  children ;  the  latter  laden  with  hedge-flowers.  Mra. 
Brown  admires  and  caresses  the  children,  whom  Susan,  at  her  mistress's 
bidding,  has  left  in  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Brown  says  something  about 
'  spoiling,'  which  Katey  does  not  understand,  though  she  opens  her  large 
eyes  still  wider,  as  if  in  the  effort  to  comprehend.  Kitchens  in  Victoria- 
terraces  not  being  very  remote  from  drawing-rooms,  a  sound  of  bitter  vio- 
lent weeping  is  heard  proceeding  from  the  lower  regions.  Mrs.  Smith  rushes 
to  the  stairs  to  ask  what  is  the  matter  ;  Mrs.  Brown  following  in  charge  of 
the  children.] 

Sarah.  [Sympathetic,  with  her  apron  corner  to  her 
eye.]  Oh,  Ma'am,  poor  Susan  has  got  a  letter  from 
home,  and  her  sister  that's  been  ill  so  long  —  that  was 
in  the  hospital  for  months  —  is  dying  ;  the  doctors  say 
she  can't  live  three  days. 

Mrs.  S.  [Going  into  the  kitchen.]  Oh,  I  am  so 
sorry.  Is  it  the  poor  girl  that  had  the  '  housemaid's 
knee  '  from  that  h^rd  place  ? 


220  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

Sarah.  Yes,  Ma'am  ;  the  brutes  that  kept  her 
scrubbing  from  morning  till  night ;  I  wonder  they  can't 
be  hung  for  murder. 

Mrs.  S.  Hush,  Sarah  ;  it  will  do  no  good  to  re- 
proach them  more.  No  doubt  they  have  learned  a 
lesson  from  their  severity,  and  will  regret  it  as  long  as 
they  live.  [  To  Susan :  putting  her  hand  kindly  on  her 
shoulder.l  My  poor  girl,  what  can  I  do  to  comfort 
you  .'* 

Susan.  [Sobbing  violently.'^  Oh,  Ma'am,  she  do  so 
fret  to  see  me  once  more  !  There's  —  only  —  a  — 
a  year  between  us;  and  we  came  up  to  London 
together. 

Mrs.  Smith.  Then  go  to  her,  of  course,  by  all 
means. 

Susan.  [Sobbing  still,  and  kissing  one  of  Mrs. 
Smith'' s  hands. '[  Oh,  Ma'am,  I  was  afraid  —  Cook  — 
being  out — you  couldn't  let  me;  and  if  I  don't  go 
to-day  I  may  never  see  her  —  again  —  Oh,  Ma'am  — 
bless  you  !  —  bless  you  !  —  Ma'am.  No  one  ever  had 
such  a  mistress. 

Mrs.  S.  Hush,  my  poor  girl ;  try  to  be  calm  — 
she  may  recover  still — doctors  often  make  mistakes 

—  and  if  not,  remember  it  is  the  will  of  God  —  and 
think  how  much  your  poor  sister  suffered.  Sarah, 
fetch  her  a-  glass  of  wine,  and  then  look  for  Bradshaw 

—  it  is  in  the  breakfast  room  —  that  we  may  see  when 
the  next  train  to  Reading  goes.  That  is  the  one  she 
wants,  is  it  not  ? 

[Exit  Sarah,  who  returns  with  Bradshaw  and  a  glass  of  wine.  Susan  revives 
a  little  Bradshaw  declares  there  is  a  mixed  train  1  h  55  m  ;  Mrs  Smith 
observes  there  is  only  just  time  to  arrange,  as  there  is  a  long  omnibus  ride  to 
the  station.  Susan  shakes  her  head  at  the  mention  of  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Smith 


MRS.   SMITH  AND   MRS.   BROWN.  221 

suggests  to  Sarah  a  packet  of  sandwiches  to  put  into  the  traveller's  bag. 
Willy  and  Katey  promise  to  be  very  good  with  dear  mamma,  and  kisa 
'  poor '  Susan  —  little  lips  trembling  with  the  ready  tears.] 

Supplementary   Scene — No.  5,   Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown, 
anathematizing  mutton-chops  cocked  (?)  by  charwoman. 

Mr.  Brown.  [^Crossly.']  Mrs.  B.,  as  my  mother,  who 
was  a  Norfolk  woman,  used  to  say,  '  The  proof  of  the 
pudding  is  in  the  eating  ; '  and  I  do  maintain  Smith's 
is  the  pleasantest  house  I  know  to  go  to  ;  he  never  sit 
down  to  a  dinner  of  fat  and  cinders  I  know  —  and 
what  does  it  signify  if  she  spoils  the  servants,  and  if 
she  gets  the  best  sort  of  work  out  of  them  neverthe- 
less. I  never  saw  plate  so  polished  —  and  they''ye  no 
man.  As  for  the  spring-soup,  the  other  day,  it  was  fit 
for  an  alderman ;  and  in  the  winter,  that  venison  I 
shall  never  forget  —  why  can't  we  have  hot-water 
plates  I  should  like  to  know  ? 

Mrs.  B.  Brown,  you  are  quite  a  brute  to  talk  of 
such  things  at  such  a  time  —  when  you  know  I  am 
almost  frantic. 

Mr.  B.  I  am  not  a  brute ;  but  this  I  do  say,  that 
the  young  wives  seem  to  me  in  the  main  the  best 
managers. 

Mrs.  B.  You  had  better  bury  me  —  I  shall  soon  be 
worried  into  my  grave  —  and  then  you  can  have  a 
young  wife. 

Mr.  B.  Don't  talk  like  an  old  fool.  Hang  it  — it  is 
enough  to  make  a  man  savage  —  scold,  scold,  scold  — 
change,  change,  change. 

Mrs.  B.  \^Weeping.']  Because  I  get  hold  of  a  parcel 
of  wretches,  and  Mrs.  Smith  has  treasures. 

Mr.  B.  I  fancy  she  helps  to  make  them  treasures  i 


ENGLISH  TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

and  it  isn't  as  if  she  could  be  very  active  in  the  house 
herself —  I  am  sure  she  isn't ;  such  a  charming  accom- 
plished woman  —  the  life  and  ornament  of  society  and 
as  pretty         • 

[Mrs.  Brown  bursts  into  a  fit  of  hysterics.  Mr.  Brown  aclmowledgea  he  is  a 
brute,  calls  her  '  darling,'  and  '  dear  Nancy,'  and  the  scene  closes  on  mutual 
flatteries  and  condolence,  Mr.  B.  promising  never  to  set  up  Mrs.  Smith  as  a 
pattern  again.] 


THE  MERCHANT'S  CLERK. 


'  One  touch  of  Nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin.' 

TftOILDS  AND  CbeSSIDA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  appearance  of  Godfrey- 
Grey  that  at  the  first  glance  distinguished  him  from 
the  thousands  of  men  who  are  to  be  met  _  every  morn- 
ing in  the  great  thoroughfares  of  London,  wending 
their  way  city-wards  to  commence  their  dally  duties  — 
merchants'  and  bankers'  clerks  ;  earners  of  small  sala- 
ries in  government  offices  ;  or  the  infinite  variety  of 
busy  individuals  who  compose  an  important  stratum  in 
social  life.  Neither  tall  nor  short,  neither  handsome 
nor  ugly,  neither  well  dressed  nor  exactly  shabby,  and 
neither  talkative  nor  morosely  silent,  Godfrey  Grey 
was  seldom  noticed  by  strangers,  and  not  much  re- 
garded by  mere  acquaintances.  The  latter  considered 
him  an  ordinary  specimen  of  humanity,  and  perhaps 
one  of  the  last  in  the  world  to  whom  they  would  have 
attached  heroism  of  character  or  romantic  interest. 

Those  who  knew  him  a  little  better — some  of  his 
fellow  clerks  for  instance — called  him  a  '  good  soul ' 
and  '  an  excellent  fellow,'  though    occasionally  this 


234  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

commendation  was  accompanied  by  the  expletive 
'poor'  applied  to  his  name.  Yet,  if  as  applied  to 
worldly  means,  they  only  are  rich  who  live  within 
their  incomes,  '  poor  Godfrey,'  or  '  poor  Grey,'  was  a 
sad  misnomer.  At  fifty-five  years  of  age,  after  forty 
years  of  toil,  Godfrey  had  some  fifty  pounds  in  one  of 
the  suburban  savings'  banks  —  he  had  never  owed  any 
man  a  penny  he  could  not  pay,  and  had  never  incurred 
a  pecuniary  obligation,  save  once,  and  that  was  in  a 
season  of  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  death,  when  his 
household  gods  lay  shivered  at  his  feet.  For  the  Lares 
and  Penates  hover,  invisible  spirits,  about  a  poor  man's 
hearth  as  well  as  near  a  rich  one's  ;  na)',  they  some- 
times cling  there  with  a  yet  firmer  hold.  For  all  this, 
Godfrey  Grey  was  a  bachelor. 

Young  men  of  spirit  who  '  dare  do  all  that  may  be- 
come a  man,'  and  —  a  little  more,  are  very  apt  to  say 
*  poor  fellow '  of  an  elder  who  evidently  has  not  pushed 
his  fortune  in  the  world  as  they  confidently  intend  to 
do,  and  who  yet  maintains  cheerfulness  and  serenity 
in  a  condition  of  life  under  which  they  tell  you  they 
would  certainly  '  hang  themselves ; '  this  being  an 
allegorical  figure  of  speech  not  necessarily  alarming. 
Consequently,  some  of  the  juniors  in  the  counting- 
house  of  Messrs.  Stavers  and  Co.  often  said  '  poor 
Grey!'  —  youths  who  were  not  born  when  Godfrey 
first  took  his  seat  on  a  high  stool  there  ;  young  men 
of  good  connections,  who  undertook  light  work  for  no 
salary,  just  to  see  the  routine  of  business  among 
merchant  princes. 

Some  points  in  the  character  of  Mr.  Stavers,  the 
managing  partner,  will  be  developed  by  this  little  his- 


THE   merchant's   CLERK.  225 

tory.  He  was  a  tall,  portly  person,  of  few  words  and 
reserved  manners  ;  his  clear  iron-grey  eyes  were  as 
cold  in  their  expression  as  polished  steel ;  and  he  never 
shook  hands,  he  only  placed  his  hand  for  a  second  in 
the  extended  palm  of  an  intimate,  and  then  as  if  the 
action  were  something  necessary  but  disagreeable, 
which  must  be  got  over.  Nobody  ever  mentioned 
'Dombey'  in  his  presence  ;  by  mutual,  though  unex- 
pressed consent,  the  whole  world  of  his  acquaintances 
avoided  the  tppic  even  while  the  work  was  in  course 
of  publication,  and  the  timid  among  them,  whom  the 
great  man  completely  overawed,  would  have  thought 
an  allusion  to  bad  watches  or  an  Egyptian  queen 
verging  on  the  personal. 

And  yet  there  were  some  essentials  in  which  Mr. 
Stavers  was  far  from  being  a  Dombey.  He  had  loved 
the  wife  of  his  youth  with  generous  and  entire  devo- 
tion ;  he  had  lost  her  after  a  happy  union  of  a  very 
few  years,  and  then  his  whole  affections  had  centred 
in  the  only  daughter  —  the  sole  child  that  she  had  left 
him.  Who  would  have  thought  —  for  few  were  they 
who  knew  —  that  the  proud  merchant,  so  erect  of 
figure  and  cold  of  speech,  had  watched  for  many  a 
weary  night  by  infancy's  sick  bed,  and  been  to  his 
little  Mary  a  soft  and  gentle  nurse  ?  Who  would  have 
thought — and  none  there  were  who  knew  —  that  this 
stately  man  had  made  himself  the  playmate  of  his 
little  daughter  in  the  early  days  of  her  childhood,  had 
tossed  her  ball,  and  dressed  her  doll  ?  Who  could  have 
thought  all  this  ?  For  of  latter  years  the  habit  of  his 
reserve  —  all  habits  strengthen  by  indulgence  —  had 
grown  so  strong,  that  it  was  less  and  less  abandoned  in 
15 


ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

his  home.  Mary  Stavers  loved  her  father,  but  she  also 
stood  In  awe  of  him  ;  and  in  the  years  of  her  opening 
womanhood  made  no  just  measurement  of  his  parental 
affection. 

But  though  Godfrey  Grey  was  a  bachelor,  there  was 
a  Past  belonging  to  his  life  that  still,  by  the  silver  links 
of  affection,  had  a  hold  on  the  Present,  and  swayed  his 
actions,  and  directed  his  hopes  not  less  absolutely  than 
the  rich  merchant  was  influenced  by  care  and  thoughf 
for  his  da,ughter.  Yet  to  understand  all  this,  the  reader 
must  dream  a  waking  dream,  and  must  look  on  the 
pictures  I  will  strive  to  rapidly  sketch,  as  if  they  were 
phantoms  floating  across  the  surface  of  one  of  those 
fabled  mirrors  that  reflected  the  forms  of  the  dead  and 
absent,  and  the  scenes  of  long  —  long  ago. 

Look  !  —  there  is  a  slight  mist,  but  it  will  clear  away 
soon.  We  cannot  on  the  instant  shut  out  the  present, 
and  bring  to  the  mind's  eye  these  pictures  of  the  past. 
Yes,  that  young  man  is  Godfrey  Grey  —  what  a  differ- 
ence !  True,  the  difference  made  by  thirty  years  of 
chequered  life  !  But  at  five-and-twenty  he  journeyed 
to  and  from  the  counting-house  just  as  he  does  at 
present,  only  the  way  was  different.  Then  he  threaded 
narrow  streets  that  have  long  since  made  way  for  broad 
thoroughfares  ;  and  in  the  home  of  his  youth,  number 
something  in  a  suburban  terrace,  a  narrow  red-brick 
house,  with  green  outside  window-shutters,  has  been 
pulled  down,  and  the  site  occupied  by  a  railway  ter- 
minus. London  streets  were  not  so  crowded  as  now 
we  find  them ;  shops  were  less  showy,  and  dress  less 
becoming  than  at  present ;  the  rapid,  rattling  omnibus 
was  not  created,  and  lumbering  hackney-coaches,  with 


THE    merchant's   CLERK.  227 

drowsy  drivers  and  worn-out  horses,  dragged  along  the 
highways. 

Let  us  enter  the  red-brick  house,  with  the  outside 
shutters  blistered  by  the  summer  sun,  and  battered  by 
the  winter  rain.  It  has  what  we  of  another  generation 
call  an  old-fashioned  look,  and  we  don't  associate  it 
with  young  people.  And  yet  young  people  did  dwell' 
in  those  old-fashioned  hotises  !  There  is  a  Pembroke 
table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  covered  with  a  yel- 
lowish-green baize  ;  the  remnant  of  a  Turkey  carpet, 
made  for  a  much  larger  room,  partially  covers  the 
floor  ;  heavy  moreen  curtains  shade  the  windows ;  a 
portrait  of  Godfrey's  father,  set  in  a  black  frame,  hangs 
over  the  tall  chimney-piece  ;  beneath  which,  bright 
bars  and  a  polished  stove  look  coldly  suggestive  of 
terrible  task-work  to  the  maid-of-all-work ;  a  hard 
horse-hair  sofa  occupies  one  side  of  the  room,  and  its 
smoothness  remains  undisturbed  ;  for  Godfrey's  mother 
belongs  to  the  '  old  school,'  scorns  easy  chairs  herself, 
sits  erect  as  a  ramrod,  and  thinks  it  dreadful  for  young 
people  to  '  loll.'  No  wonder  !  in  those  days  only  the 
strong  lived. 

Godfrey  had  a  sister,  his  junior  by  a  year  or  two. 
And  Godfrey's  sister  had  a  friend.  And  so  it  came  to 
pass  that  often  and  often  two  blooming  girls  sat  and 
worked,  and  laughed  and  talked,  and  sang  snatches  of 
old  ballads,  in  that  dim  cheerless  room.  Perhaps,  too,, 
their  youth  and  gaiety  shed  a  pleasantness  about  the 
scene  not  easy  to  realize  now.  Their  bird-like  snatches 
of  song  were  without  instrumental  accompaniment,  for 
in  those  days  girls  in  their  station  of  life  were  not 
taught  music. 


228  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Godfrey's  father  had  held  an  unimportant  situation  in 
a  Government  office.  The  patron  to  whom  he  owed  it 
died  soon  after  the  appointment,  and  henceforth,  being 
without  influence,  his  onward  steps  were  few  and  far 
between.  But  he  lived  economically,  brought  up  his 
two  children  with  credit,  and  left  a  few  hundreds  be- 
hind him,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  sunk,  at  the 
imperative  desire  of  Godfrey  and  Esther,  in  a  life 
annuity  for  the  widow.  Godfrey,  as  we  know,  was  a 
merchant's  clerk  ;  and  his  sister  earned  pocket-money 
by  her  needle.  In  those  days  there  were  many  handi- 
crafts in  vogue  which  are  now  little  pursued.  Lace 
mending  and  darning  of  various  rich  fabrics  were 
among  them  ;  for  machinery  had  not  then  disseminated 
good  taste ;  and  the  beautiful  in  dress  was  so  costly, 
that  even  the  very  wealthy  were  glad  to  find  keen  eyes 
and  skilful  fingers  ready  to  repair  accidental  injuries. 
It  was  very  trying  to  the  eyesight,  this  darning  of  fine 
cashmere  and  curious  restoration  of  damaged  lace  ; 
and  before  she  was  five-and-twenty,  Esther  Grey  used 
spectacles  of  high  magnifying  power.  But  many  things 
happened  before  that  time,  which  probably  seemed  of 
more  importance  than  the  dimness  of  sight  of  which  she 
complained. 

The  name  of  her  friend  was  Mary  Douglas  ;  a  pretty, 
light-hearted,  fairy  creature,  that  even  when  out  of  her 
teens  seemed  more  of  a  child  than  a  woman.  Like 
Esther,  she  was  an  only  daughter,  and  the  bond  of 
affectionate  sympathy  between  them  was  almost  sis- 
terly. They  were  not  alike,  yet  the  different  points  of 
their  character  resembled  those  discords  in  music  which 
are  resolved  into  harmony.     Esther  was  sedate,  and 


THE    merchant's    CLERK.  229 

Mary  almost  giddy  ;  Esther  was  industrious,  and  Mary 
very  nearly  idle  ;  and  yet  her  idleness  did  not  seem 
what  it  was  —  somehow  or  other  it  seemed  natural  for 
her  to  be  quite  unemployed,  or  at  most  to  be  winding 
silk  and  thread  for  Esther's  use.  Even  this  she  did  ill, 
being  too  impatient  to  disentangle  knots,  or  overcome 
a  difficulty.  But  perhaps  she  was  singing  like  a  thrush 
all  the  time,  or  telling  some  merry  story,  laughing,  or 
it  might  be  crying  if  something  pitiful  had  happened  — 
and  no  one  ever  had  the  heart  to  rebuke  her. 

Godfrey  Grey  loved  Mary  Douglas  !  A  whole  history 
is  told  in  that  brief  sentence  ;  and  all  that  followed  wa^ 
but  natural  to  his  character.  He  loved  her  intensely  ; 
worshipped  her  as  man  does  not  often  do  —  unselfishly  ; 
but  though  he  watched  every  look,  every  word,  every 
gesture,  he  had  not  the  vanity  to  coilstrue  the  familiar 
friendship  she  evinced  for  'Esther's  brother'  into  a 
warmer  sentiment.  He  was  quite  right,  and  she  did 
not  even  suspect  the  life-long  affection  she  had  kindled. 
He  was  shy,  reserved,  believing  her  to  be  like  a  queen 
above  him,  happy  only  to  bask  in  her  presence  some- 
times, and  fearful  too  bold  a  word  would  frighten  her 
from  the  house. 

One  autumn  evening  Godfrey  returned  home  as 
usual.  The  mother  sat  knitting  mid-way  between  the 
window  and  the  cold  bright  grate.  It  was  a  chilly 
night,  but  Mrs.  Grey,  belonging  to  the  old  school,  never 
had  fires  till  some  particular  day,  which  had  not  arrived 
yet.  Esther  was  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  plying  her 
needle  diligently.  The  wind  sighed  and  surged  through 
the  neighboring  trees,  and  rattled  their  dead  leaves  on 
the  ground  ;   everything  had  a  gloomy  aspect,   and 


230  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Godfrey  felt  a  presentiment  of  evil.  Esther  was  more 
silent  than  usual,  but  a  smile  seemed  struggling  to 
break  from  her  pursed-up  lips ;  she  had  a  secret,  and 
while  she  hugged  it,  longed  to  tell  it. 

Godfrey  was  set  to  guess  the  riddle,  with  the  '  What 
do  you  think  ?  '  and  '  Who  do  you  think  ? '  which  are 
so  tiresome  and  tantalizing.  He  could  not  guess,  but 
Esther  exclaimed  at  last,  '  Well,  then,  Mary  is  going 
to  be  married  !     Are  you  not  surprised  ?' 

'  Yes  —  oh,  no —  why  surprised  ? '  said  Godfrey,  very 
calmly,  and  sipping  his  tea  as  he  spoke.  It  was  quite 
twilight,  almost  the  dusk  of  a  cloudy  evening.  Pres- 
ently he  left  the  room,  and  not  returning  for  an  hour, 
Esther  sought  her  brother  ;  she  found  him  on  his  bed  ; 
he  said  his  head  ached  dreadfully,  but  her  sisterly  ten- 
derness brought  Isfrge  tears  to  his  eyes,  and  her  womanly 
instinct  leaped  at  something  near  the  truth. 

'  Mary  !  —  my  poor  brother  ! '  This  was  nearly  all 
she  said  ;  but  Godfrey  knew  that  her  heart  bled  for 
him. 

It  was  a  long  interview,  and  Godfrey's  last  words  as 
she  left  him,  were  '  Esther,  through  life,  not  a  word  of 
this  to  her,  to  any  one.' 

And  so  Mary  Douglas  married  her  handsome,  high- 
spirited  lover  ;  and  her  father  —  it  was  a  year  before  his 
death  —  gave  her  away  ;  and  everybody  thought  she 
had  made  a  '  great  match.'  They  lived  in  a  dashing 
style ;  yet  one  day  her  husband  died,  leaving  Mary  a 
pennyless  widow  with  a  little  orphan  girl. 

What  changes  ten  years  make  in  the  small  world  of 
a  social  circle  !  Old  Mrs.  Grey  was  dead,  and  her 
little  income  lost ;  Godfrey  was  beginning  to  look  a 


THE   merchant's   CLERK.  231 

middle-aged  man  —  white  hairs  were  thickly  strewn 
among  his  brown  locks,  and  he  stooped  perceptibly ; 
and  Esther  —  poor  Esther  !  — was  almost  blind.  She 
could  not  work,  she  could  not  read,  and  she  never 
sang  now.  The  merry  heart  of  careless  youth  was 
gone  for  ever  ;  and  if  she  were  a  little  fractious  now 
and  then,  Godfrey  remembered  her  affliction,  and  bore 
with  her. 

Mary,  the  idolized  Mary,  was  penniless ;  there  was 
but  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  Godfrey's  little  hoard 
was  placed  at  her  disposal.  Mary  had  all  her  life  been 
cared  for  by  others,  and  it  did  not  seem  strange  for  her 
friends  to  help  her  now.  And  yet  the  canker  was 
eating  into  her  very  life ;  she  had  loved  her  husband 
dearly,  and  mourned  him  in  anguish  of  spirit ;  and  the 
fall  from  seeming  affluence  to  poverty  shook  her  mind, 
and  shattered  her  mortal  frame.  She  only  lited  a  year, 
and  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  the 
child  —  a  little  Mary,  too  —  to  be  adopted  by  the  old 
maid  and  the  old  bachelor. 

They  reared  her  lovingly ;  debarred  themselves  of 
all  luxuries  and  many  comforts,  that  she  might  be  ten- 
derly nurtured  ;  made  her  the  pivot  of  their  affections, 
and  the  load-star  of  their  hopes.  At  eighteen,  she 
eloped  from  their  roof  to  wed  almost  a  stranger,  a  boy 
scarcely  older  than  herself,  and  to  encounter,  as  they 
soon  discovered,  the  struggles  and  perils  of  poverty. 
The  blow  broke  Esther's  heart,  though  she  lingered 
for  months  on  a  sick  bed  before  death  released  her 
from  a  world  that  now  seemed  doubly  dark  to  the  blind 
woman.  She  lived  to  know  that  the  '  child '  was 
already  pinched   by  penury,  was   already   accepting 


232  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

alms  like  a  beggar  from  the  poor  bereaved  Godfrey. 
It  was  now  indeed  that  his  household  gods  lay  shivered, 
and  that  the  depth  of  woe  was  known.  ■ 

These  are  the  scenes  that  float,  disturbed  and  indis- 
tinctly, athwart  the  magic  mirror  of  the  past.  A  breath 
—  a  will  —  and  the  daylight  of  present  reality  shines 
in  —  and  we  have  Godfrey  Grey,  the  elderly  clerk,  the 
'  good  soul '  of  his  acquaintances,  trudging  to  and  fro 
from  his  desolate  two  rooms  to  the  counting-house,  ful- 
filling his  duties  with  clock-like  regularity,  though  with 
something  more  than  automaton  skill. 


CHAPTER    II. 

Godfrey  sat  on  his  high  stool  as  usual ;  he  was  busy 
adding  up,  and  subtracting  from,  and  poring  over, 
long  rows  of  figures ;  nevertheless  he  had  looked  up 
three  times  at  the  clock  over  the  chimney-piece,  and 
compared  its  face  once  with  that  of  his  own  antique 
silver  watch.  The  hands  only  varied  half  a  minute ; 
it  was  nearly  noon,  and  Mr.  Stavers  had  not  made  his 
appearance,  or  sent  to  account  for  his  absence.  The 
case  was  unprecedented ;  a  heap  of  unopened  letters 
remained  on  the  table  in  Mr.  Stavers'  private  room, 
and,  from  the  post-marks  of  two  or  three,  the  chief 
clerks  knew  they  required  prompt  attention.  Besides, 
several  matters  were  at  a  stand-still,  for  Mr.  Stavers 
was  an  indefatigable  man  of  business,  and  on  the  rare 
occasions  of  his  absence  always  made  methodical 
arrangements,  deputing  some   little   authority  to   one 


THE    merchant's    CLERK.  233 

or  more  of  the  clerks,  who,  however,  never  dreamed 
of  exercising  it  without  a  formal  bestowal  of  this  occa- 
sional regency,  not  even  on  an  emergency  like  the 
present. 

A  council  was  held,  at  which  it  was  decided  that  if 
Mr.  Stayers  did  not  appear  by  one  o'clock,  Grey  should 
take  a  cab  and  drive  as  fast  as  possible,  with  the  letters, 
to  the  great  man's  residence  in  Portman  Square  —  ex- 
treme expedition  being-  desirable,  lest  Mr.  Stavers  and 
his  clerk  should  cross  on  the  road.  Godfrey  knew  the 
house  well,  for  on  more  than  one  occasion  of  illness 
he  had  been  the  bearer  of  dispatches.  Arrived  there 
he  discharged  the  cab,  and  with  his  own  hand  gave  a 
modest  knock  at  the  door. 

The  street-door  of  a  large  house  seldom  opens  quite 
so  fast  to  a  modest  knock  as  to  the  crescendo  rat-a-tat- 
tat-tat  of  a  practised  footman ;  but  on  that  morning 
Godfrey  Grey  had  to  repeat  his  knock,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  lifting  his  hand  a  third  time,  when  at  last  the 
lock  gave  way.  It  was  a  maid-servant  who  opened  the 
door  —  an  unusual  circumstance  ;  and  at  a  glance  the 
visitor  perceived  that  something  out  of  the  customary 
routine  must  have  happened.  There  was  an  appear- 
ance of  disarray  even  about  the  entrance-hall,  the 
oaken  chairs  of  which,  instead  of  being  primly  ar- 
ranged, were  drawn  edgeways  out  of  their  places,  as 
if  hustled  about  by  hurried  passing  to  and  fro.  It  was 
not  even  a  housemaid,  but  that  servants'  drudge,  the 
kitchen-maid,  who  opened  the  door,  a  country  girl  with 
a  strong  provincial  accent,  and  who  could  or  would 
only  say  '  No,  he  aint,'  to  the  inquiry  if  Mr.  Stavers 
were  at  home,  and  '  I  doan't  know  '  to  the  question  if 


234  ENGLISn    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

he  were  well.  Presently,  however,  Godfrey  bethought 
himself  to  ask  for  the  housekeeper,  it  being  evident 
that  no  men-servants  were  about  the  premises,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  an  old  servant  of  the  family  made  her 
appearance  dressed  in  the  orthodox  black  silk  of  a 
*  housekeeper,'  carrying  her  spectacles  in  one  hand 
and  a  pocket  handkerchief  in  the  other ;  but  it  was  the 
latter  that  she  raised  to  her  eyes,  as  she  motioned 
Godfrey  Grey  into  the  breakfast  parlor,  where  the 
remains  of  the  morning  meal  were  still  on  the  table. 

Yes,  there  was  the  urn  that  hissed  no  longer  ;  the 
cup  of  coffee  only  half  empty ;  a  knife  upon  the  floor; 
a  fork  plunged  in  the  untasted  perigord  pie  upon  his 
plate  ;  the  arm-chair  pushed  back  ;  —  all  showing  at  a 
glance  that  Mr.  Stavers  had  left  his  just-tasted  break- 
fast hastily.  But  there  was  one  cup  unused,  one  napkin 
unfolded,  one  plate  unsoiled  ;  and  these  proclaimed  that 
the  daughter  had  not  joined  her  father  at  the  unfinished 
meal. 

'  Oh,  Sir !  —  oh,  Mr.  Grey ! '  exclaimed  the  weeping 
matron,  '  I  don't  wonder  at  your  coming ;  and  I  don't 
wonder  at  my  poor  master  never  once  thinking  of 
business.  Bless  you  !  he's  half  way  to  Scotland  by  this 
time,  almost;  he  took  an  express  — '  but  here  tears 
prevented  the  good  woman  from  proceeding. 

'  Express  !  Scotland  ! '  ejaculated  the  astonished 
clerk. 

'  Yes,'  sobbed  the  housekeeper,  '  Gretna  Green, 
Miss  Mary  has  eloped  ! ' 

Godfrey  sank  into  a  chair,  for  he  could  no  longer 
stand.  The  green  wound  of  his  own  sorrow,  the  keen 
memory  of  all  he  had  felt  when  his  Mary  —  the  very 


THE    merchant's    CLERK.  235 

name  even  affected  him  —  had  left  her  humble  home 
at  the  stranger's  bidding,  flashed  through  his  soul,  and 
showed  him  the  life-drama  just  as  it  had  been  acted. 
And  something  more  ;  for  he  not  only  recognised  the 
outward  action,  —  how  the  father,  not  seeing  his  child 
at  breakfast,  had  summoned  her  and  found  her  fled, — 
but  Godfrey  Grey  could  understand,  throb  for  throb,  all 
the  anguish  of  that  father's  heart. 

The  housekeeper,  worthy  soul !  who  had  nursed 
Mary  Stavers  on  her  knee,  and  loved  her  as  old  ser- 
vants almost  always  love  the  children  they  have  seen 
grow  up,  gave  the  outlines  of  the  dark  tale  very  briefly. 
By  the  aid  of  her  French  maid,  who  was  also  missing, 
the  young  lady  must  have  left  her  father's  house  either 
late  the  preceding  night  or  early  that  morning.  Mis- 
tress and  maid  had  both  apparently  retired  for  the  night, 
but  neither  of  their  beds  had  been  slept  in.  As  the 
worthless  Annette's  only  duty  was  to  attend  on  her 
young  mistress,  her  not  being  about  the  house  early  in 
the  morning  had  not  attracted  the  smallest  attention. 
The  probability  was  they  had  quitted  London  some 
hours  before  their  flight  was  discovered ;  and  from  a 
letter  left  on  the  toilet-table,  it  was  acknowledged  for 
what  purpose,  and  with  whom  —  to  wed  a  dashing 
young  officer,  whose  sole  means  consisted  of  a  lieu- 
tenant's pay ! 

'  If  you  had  but  seen  my  poor  master ! '  repeated 
the  housekeeper.  '  Oh,  it  almost  broke  my  heart  to  see 
the  large  tears  rolling  down  his  poor  face,  which  was 
as  white  as  that  table-cloth.  To  think  of  Mr.  Stavers 
weeping  !     But  nobody  can  tell  how  much  he  felt.' 


ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

'  I  can,'  said  Godfrey,  in  a  low  sad  tone.  '  I  can, 
from  my  heart.' 

'  And  there  is  something,'  continued  the  worthy 
woman,  '  that  is  distressing  me  very  much  indeed. 
Master  has  taken  his  old  servant  Smith  with  him,  but 
there's  a  jackanapes  of  a  young  footman,  who  is  to 
leave  next  week,  and  out  of  a  spite  I  am  almost  sure 
he  is  going  to  send  an  account  of  the  elopement  to  the 
newspapers,  if  he  has  not  done  so  already,  for  he  was 
writing  for  the  best  part  of  an  hour,  and  then  went  out, 
as  full  of  importance  as  he  was  the  day  he  put  on  his 
new  livery.' 

*  This  must  be  stopped !'  exclaimed  Godfrey,  with 
decision. 

'  Ah,  but  how  ? ' 

'By  terrifying  him  — by  bribing  him — by  knocking 
his  brains  out,'  returned  Godfrey,  in  a  passion  of 
wrath  ;  '  the  villain  ! ' 

'  Well,  Mr.  Grey,  I  only  hope  you  will  be  able  to 
persuade  him.  I  have  almost  been  down  upon  my 
knees  to  him,  but  he  only  laughs.  Mind  you,  he  don't 
own  what  he  has  been  doing  ;  but  I  know.  And  he 
don't  care  for  his  character,  as  he  is  going  to  turn  play- 
actor.' 

'  Where  can  I  find  him  —  when  will  he  be  in  ?  ' 
asked  Godfrey,  impatiently. 

'To  dinner  —  leave  him  alone  for  that;  lam  sure 
he  will  be  home  in  another  quarter  of  an  hour.  In- 
deed he  may  be  in  already.     I'll  go  and  see.' 

While  she  was  absent,  Godfrey  Grey  walked  into 
the  hall,  and  after  deliberately  examining  some  »ticks 
which  leaned  together  in  a  stand,  selected  one,  switch- 


THE    merchant's   CLERK.  28T- 

ing  it,  as  he  returned  to  the  breakfast-room,  with  as 
much  freedom  as  if  it  had  been  his  own. 

The  young  knave  had  returned,  and,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  purpose  for  which  he  was  summoned  up 
stairs,  he  made  his  appearance  before  Godfrey  Grey, 
who  taxed  him  with  his  offence  in  a  tone  of  voice  and 
in  a  manner  that  showed  this  was  not  a  time  for  trifling. 
Meanwhile,  the  housekeeper  saw  the  stick,  and  saw 
that  Godfrey's  pale  face  was  set  to  a  purpose  of  deter- 
mination, and  not  liking  to  be  the  witness  of  a  scene, 
she  withdrew  ;  first,  however,  taking  up  the  knives  and 
forks  from  the  breakfast-table,  in  the  most  quiet  and 
natural  manner  in  the  world,  as  if  she  were  innocent 
of  a  thought  beyond  their  purification.  In  about  five 
minutes  a  noisy  scuffle  was  heard,  which  surprised  her 
less  than  it  did  the  other  women  servants,  accompanied 
by  cries  of  '  Help  !  help  !  —  murder  ! ' 

The  women,  in  a  party  of  three  strong,  entered  the 
breakfast-room,  where  they  found  the  young  would-be 
Roscius  in  the  grasp  of  Godfrey  Grey,  whose  knuckles, 
pressed  upon  his  throat,  half-stifled  his  cries,  which 
now  were  changed  to  '  I  will  —  I  will  —  let  go  ! ' 

'  I  will,'  he  repeated,  when  lightly  held  at  arm's 
length  by  Grey,  whose  excitement  seemed  to  have  lent 
him  additional  strength,  '  I  will ; '  but  the  now  craven 
youth  added,  '  you  must  give  me  the  two  sovereigns 
you  promised  just  now.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  Godfrey,  '  and  perhaps  this  good 
lady  will  take  charge  of  them  until  we  know  it  is  not 
too  late  for  you  to  undo  the  mischief.' 

As  he  spoke,  he  put  the  money  into  the  house- 
keeper's hand,  adding,  '  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to 


238  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

send  for  a  cab,  that  I  may  take  this  rascal  with  me  to 
the  newspaper  offices,  and  get  back  the  precious  para- 
graphs he  has  left  there.' 

And  this  was  done,  partly  by  Godfrey's  simple  state- 
ment, partly  by  the  culprit's  forced  confession  that  only 
a  tithe  he  had  written  was  true.  His  guilty  conscience 
and  imaginative  temperament  had  pictured  Godfrey 
Grey  as  a  police  officer  in  plain  clothes,  a  mistake 
which  neither  he  nor  the  worthy  housekeeper  took  the 
trouble  of  correcting.  He  came  back  for  the  promised 
bribe,  which  was  honorably  bestowed  ;  the  housekeeper 
paid  his  arrears  of  wages  ;  and  then  he  slunk  out  of 
the  house,  bag  and  baggage,  with  yet  a  theatrical  air 
that  showed  him  to  be  not  altogether  unfit  for  the  low 
villains  of  melo-dramatic  performances. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  WEEK  had  passed,  and  Mr.  Stavers  was  again  to 
be  found  in  the  quiet  back  room  of  his  counting-house. 
The  morning  following  the  day  of  his  unexpected  ab- 
sence, the  clerks  had  received  a  letter  from  him,  bearing 
the  post-mark  of  a  town  in  the  north  of  England  giving 
ample  instructions  for  the  conduct  of  the  business ;  and 
when  he  returned,  he  made  only  the  slightest  possible 
allusion  to  his  having  left  town.  He  had  bowed  coldly 
as  he  passed  through  the  outer  offices,  and  every  one 
had  observed  the  ravages  one  little  week  had  made. 
He  looked  as  if  he  had  not  slept  all  the  while  he  had 
been  away. 


THE   merchant's   CLERK.  239 

*  Will  you  tell  Mr.  Grey  that  I  wish  to  see  him  ? ' 
said  Mr.  Stavers,  addressing  one  of  the  clerks,  with 
whom  he  had  just  been  conversing  on  business ;  and 
obedient  to  the  summons,  Godfrey  entered  the  private 
room. 

'  Be  seated,'  said  the  great  man,  with  more  urbanity 
than  was  usual  to  his  manner,  and  pointing  to  a  chair 
near  his  own  ;  and  Godfrey,  obeying  his  behest,  re- 
mained silent  during  a  pause  that  was  long  enough  to 
be  awkward.  He  would  almost  as  soon  have  thought 
of  first  addressing  a  royal  personage,  as  the  usually 
haughty  man  before  him. 

'  1  have  to  thank  you,'  continued  Mr.  Stavers,  at 
length,  '  I  have  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Grey,  for  a  very 
important  service  which  you  have  rendered  me ;  a 
service  prompted  by  thoughtful  kindness,  and  executed 
with  equal  discretion  and  firmness.' 

Taken  by  surprise,  having  imagined  that  the  private 
conference  had  been  desired  for  some  purely  business 
purpose,  Godfrey  answered  but  the  truth,  when  he 
said,  'Indeed,  Sir,  I  do.  not  know  to  what  you  are 
alluding.' 

'  Is  it  possible  you  can  have  forgotten  —  is  it  possi- 
ble you  can  doubt  my  obligation  to  you  ?  '  asked  Mr. 
Stavers,  in  reply  ;  yet  without  waiting  to  be  answered, 
he  continued,  '  My  housekeeper  has  told  me  how  you 
acted  last  week,  on  —  on  the  occasion  of —  of  my 
bereavement ;  how  you  prevented  the  wounds  of  my 
broken  heart  from  being  further  probed  and  lacerated 
by  public  gossip  and  idle  chatter.  And,  Sir,  I  wish 
you  to  know  how  much  I  thank  you.'  As  he  finished 
speaking,  the  proud  man  leaned  his  head   upon  his 


240  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

hand,  so  that  his  face  was  in  a  great  measure  hidden. 
And  Godfrey  answered  in  a  choking  voice  — 

'  It  was  only  natural  to  do  as  I  did  :  I  felt  so  certain 
what  your  feelings  must  be.' 

'  Yours  was  an  active  sympathy,  Mr.  Grey,  and  — ' 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and 
mastering  all  appearance  of  emotion  in  a  moment,  Mr. 
Stavers  said,  '  Come  in,'  quite  in  a  calm  tone  of  voice. 

'  If  you  please.  Sir,'  said  one  of  the  clerks,  just 
stepping  within  the  room  and  holding  the  door  in  his 
hand,  '  if  you   please,  Sir,  there  is  some  one   from 

Messrs.  B 's  with  a  private  note  to  you,  and  a 

request  that  he  may  see  you  immediately^^  and  the 
speaker  laid  great  stress  on  the  last  word. 

'  Tell  him  to  walk  in,'  replied  Mr.  Stavers,  and 
while  the  clerk  bowed  himself  out,  the  great  man 
added,  'We  are  interrupted,  Mr.  Grey,  but  I  shall 
see  you  again,'  holding  out  his  hand  as  he  spoke. 

I  have  said  before  that  Mr.  Stavers  never  '  shook 
hands,'  but  this  was  the  first  time  that  Godfrey  Grey 
had  touched  his  fingers,  through  all  the  long  years  of 
their  daily  intercourse.  Tender-hearted,  and  sympa- 
thetic as  a  woman,  not  to  mention  the  chord  in  his 
own  life  which  was  touched,  poor  Godfrey  was  quite 
overcome.  A  mist  floated  between  his  eyes  and  the 
broad  leger  to  which  he  returned,  confusing  black  ink 
and  red,  and  confounding  the  columns  of  debtor  and 
creditor.  Many  manoeuvres  were  necessary  to  avoid 
meeting  the  glances  of  his  companions,  and  a  great 
effort  was  made  to  speak,  when  needful,  with  compo- 
sure. Moreover,  he  had  no  appetite  for  the  frugal 
dinner,  consiting  of  cold  meat  and  bread,  which,  ac- 


THE   merchant's   CLERK.  241 

cording  to  the  practice  of  the  last  twelvemonth,  he  had 
brought  daily  in  his  pocket.  For  many  years  previ- 
ously he  had  either  returned  home  to  dine  with  his 
sister,  or  regaled  himself  at  a  chop-house. 

The  clocks  from  the  neighboring  churches  had 
chimed  the  hours,  two — three  —  four  —  half-past  five 
had  struck,  and  this  was  Godfrey's  time  for  leaving. 
Some  of  the  juniors  stayed  a  little  later,  as  well  as 
one  old  man,  who  had  been  even  longer  in  the  house 
than  Godfrey,  and  the  drudge  of  two  generations.  It 
never  entered  into  the  mind  of  any  of  them  that  Mr. 
Stavers  might  still  be  in  his  room,  the  door  of  which 
was  a  few  inches  ajar ;  so  methodical  were  his  habits, 
and  so  invariably  did  he  leave  the  counting-house  be- 
tween four  and  five  o'clock,  usually  making  his  exit 
through  a  private  side-door.  They  had  not  reckoned 
on  one  simple  truth,  that  home  was  home  to  him  no 
longer,  and  that  he  gladly  lingered  anywhere,  far  from 
its  precincts. 

'  The  old  Governor  seems  cut  up  about  his  daugh- 
ter,' said  one  of  the  party,  as  soon  as  Godfrey  was  out 
of  hearing,  throwing  down  his  pen,  and  placing  him- 
self with  his  back  to  the  fire,  keeping  off  the  warmth 
from  every  one  else,  in  a  manner  which  is  thoroughly 
vulgar,  because  thoroughly  selfish,  —  but  it  must  be 
added  also,  thoroughly  English.  The  speaker  was 
quite  an  illustrious  instance  of  the  commonplace  —  in- 
different to  sentiment,  or  inclined  to  ridicule  it,  because 
he  had  little  or  no  feeling  himself.  '  Yet,  what  does 
it  signify,'  he  continued, '  the  old  fellow  has  got  money 
enough  for  two.' 

'I  think  Grey  seems  as  much  cut  up  as  the  poor 
16 


242  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

Governor ;  indeed,  he  has  not  been  himself  the  whole 
week,'  said  another  clerk,  who  was  married,  and  a 
father,  and  who  was  a  man  of  a  very  different  stamp 
from  the  first  speaker. 

'  And  no  wonder,'  sighed  the  old  clerk,  the  '  drudge' 
already  alluded  to. 

'No  wonder  !  why  not  ? '  exclaimed  two  or  three  at 
once. 

'  I  could  tell  why,  if  I  pleased.' 

'  Then  do  please,'  said  the  speaker  who  had  first 
mentioned  Godfrey.  '  He  is  not  married,  —  he  never 
had  a  daughter  run  away  from  him,  had  he  ?  ' 

'  I  might  answer  no,  and  yes,  to  that  question.  He 
never  was  married,  and  jiever  had  a  daughter ;  but 
he  and  his  poor  blind  sister  adopted  a  little  orphan 
girl,  and  brought  her  up  with  more  love  than  some- 
times parents  show.  Bless  you,  I  remember  her  well 
enough,  years  ago.  I  used  often  to  spend  an  evening 
with  Grey,  and  many 's  the  time  I  have  seen  little 
Mary  sitting  on  his  knee,  with  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  her  rosy  cheek  pressed  tight  against  his  pale 
one,  and  her  bright  golden  curls  waving  over  his 
shoulders.  She  used  to  call  him  uncle,  but  he  was  no 
relation,  I  know.' 

*  Who  was  she  ?  '  asked  one  of  the  listeners. 

'  I  forget  the  name,  she  was  never  called  anything 
but  Mary.  But  I've  a  suspicion,'  continued  the  old 
man,  perceiving  that  his  reminiscences  seemed  inter- 
esting, and  proud  of  having  a  story  to  tell :  '  I've  more 
than  a  suspicion,  from  many  a  hint  his  sister  dropped, 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  Grey's  first  love,  who 
married  another,  and  died  a  beggar.' 


THE    merchant's   CLERK.  243 

'  Grey  in  love  !  well,  that  is  more  than  I  can  ima- 
gine,' said  the  youth  at  the  fire,  pulling  up  his  collar, 
and  passing  his  fingers  through  his  long  hair. 

'  And  why  not  ? '  returned  the  old  man.  '  I  can  tell 
you,  thirty  years  ago,  he  was  a  better-looking  fellow 
than  any  of  you  here,  and  a  good  soul  always.  Think 
how  he  put  up  with  the  fretful  ways  of  his  poor  sister, 
who  was  always  fretting  and  fuming  because  she 
could  not  do  what  she  had  done,  and  what  had  worn 
away  her  eye-sight.  I  know  how  he  deprived  himself 
of  enjoyments  to  give  her  luxuries,  and  how  they  both 
lived  only  to  bring  up  that  child  ;  and  then  to  consider 
the  return  she  made  them,  the  little  minx !  I  never 
think  of  her  without  feeling  that  I  should  like  to  box 
her  ears.' 

'  Why,  what  did  she  do  ? '  drawled  out  the  chief 
enjoyer  of  the  fire. 

'  Do !  Why,  eloped  with  a  mere  boy,  not  able  to 
keep  her.  Grey  tells  me  there  's  no  harm  about  the 
lad,  if  he  could  only  get  good  and  regular  employ- 
ment;  but  they  are  miserably  poor,  and  there's,  a 
young  child  there  too,  another  Mary  ;  and  I  know, 
what  he  does  not  tell  me,  that  he  half  supports  them  all, 
and  pinches  himself  in  all  manner  of  ways  to  do  so. 
And  now,  I  suppose,  you  can  understand  how  it  is 
that  Grey  has  felt  so  much  for  the  '  Governor,'  as  you 
call  him  —  though  such  slang  was  not  used  in  my 
younger  days.' 


244  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

It  was  the  following  morning,  but  just  at  the  same 
hour,  and  addressing  the  same  person,  and  using  the 
same  words,  Mr.  Stavers  again  said, '  Tell  Mr.  Grey 
that  I  wish  to  see  him.' 

And  Godfrey,  obedient  to  the  summons,  and  seated 
in  the  same  chair,  and  awaiting  the  termination  of  just 
such  a  pause  as  that  which  preceded  their  brief  dis- 
course the  day  before,  felt  for  a  moment  as  if  the 
twenty-four  hours  which  had  intervened  were  nought. 
Yet  very  seldom  does  a  single  day  work  such  a  change 
of  thought  and  feeling  as  that  which  had  taken  place 
in  the  heart  of  Mr.  Stavers. 

'  We  were  interrupted  yesterday,'  he  said,  breaking 
the  silence,  '  and  I  do  not  regret  that  it  was  so,  for  a 
circumstance,  which  I  need  not  relate,  has  shown  me, 
if  indeed  I  required  such  a  proof,  how  sincerely  I  have 
your  sympathy.  I  cannot  tell  how  it  is,  but  so  it  is, 
and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  that  the  fault  must  be 
mine,  that  we  have  hitherto  been  too  little  known  to 
each  other;  in  short,  Mr.  Grey,  I  have  not  sufficiently 
appreciated  your  worth.' 

Alas,  for  poor  human  nature  !  our  powers  of  appre- 
ciation are  wonderfully  quickened  by  personal  liking, 
and  personal  liking  is  marvellously  engendered  by 
similarity  of  suffering  !  After  all,  does  not  the  differ- 
ence between  a  great  mind  and  a  little  one  consist  in  the 
large  experience  and  extended  sympathy  of  the  one, 
and  the  narrow  views  and  little  feeling  of  the  other.? 
At  present  Mr.  Stavers  did  not  know  how  much  wiser 


THE   merchant's   CLERK.  245 

and  better  his  recent  sorrow  and  its  consequences  were 
making  him.  To  his  unexpected  harangue  Godfrey 
only  answered  confusedly  — 

'  Sir —  indeed  —  you  are  very  good  ' 

'  How  many  years  have  you  been  in  our  employ  ?  * 
interrupted  Mr.  Stavers. 

'  Since  I  was  a  boy,  Sir,  and  I  am  now  fifty-five.' 
'  Good  heavens  !  All  your  life  —  through  your  few 
joys  and  your  many  sorrows,  still  our  faithful,  active 
servant!  How  little  have  I  thought  of  many  things 
which  should  have  had  my  attention  !  But  I  will 
make  amends  for  the  past,  Mr.  Grey,'  continued  Mr. 
Stavers,  extending  his  hand,  and  really  shaking  hands 
with  his  clerk ;  '  meanwhile,  having  only  heard  the 
outlines  of  your  domestic  history,  I  ask  you  as  a  per- 
sonal favor  to  communicate  to  me  as  much  more  of  it 
as  you  can  do  agreeably  to  yourself.' 

Startled  as  he  was  by  so  strange  a  request,  Godfrey 
had  no  inclination  to  refuse  it,  and  in  his  own  simple 
words  he  related  the  incidents,  which  it  would  be  a 
twice-told  tale  again  to  describe.  He  touched  but 
lightly  on  the  disappointment  of  his  youth  ;  yet  how 
much  was  betrayed  in  the  few  words,  '  After  that  time 
I  never  thought  of  marrying ! '  But  when  he  came 
to  speak  of  his  blind  sister  and  of  the  orphan  girl 
they  both  loved  so  well,  his  feelings  warmed  ;  and 
when  he  dwelt  on  the  bitter  sorrow  her  elopement  had 
occasioned,  and  how  sad  was  the  thought,  that  with  all 
their  love  she  did  not  trust  it,  did  not  seek  their  coun- 
sel, or  shrink  from  deceiving  them,  Mr.  Stavers  was 
visibly  affected.  He  rose  from  his  chair,  and  paced 
the  room  in  agitation,  exclaiming  at  last  — 


246  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

'  And  yet,  Mr.  Grey,  you  have  forgiven  them  — 
you  see  them  —  you  help  them,  out  of  your  little  — 
out  of  the  poverty  which  in  your  old  age  you  were 
willing  to  encounter,  that  you  might  rear  that  ungrate- 
ful, heartless  girl ! ' 

'  Dear  Sir,'  interrupted  Godfrey,  with  emotion, '  don't 
speak  hardly  of  her ;  if  I  think  harsh  things  of  her 
sometimes,  I  cannot  bear  that  others  should  say  them. 
I  would  rather  hear  excuses  made  for  her.  Poor  child! 
she  had  no  mother ;  my  afflicted  sister  was  but  little 
companion  for  her  sp'rightly  youth  ;  and  as  for  me, 
all  day,  every  day  in  business,  I  could  only  love  her, 
with  small  opportunity  of  showing  her  the  depth  of 
my  affection.     My  poor  Mary  ! ' 

The  name  —  the  same  name  —  how  it  struck  upoa 
the  ear  of  the  proud  father !  how  the  words  of  the 
poor  clerk  struck  upon  his  soul  !  and  what  a  war  of 
feelings,  wishes,  fears,  intentions,  was  there  at  that 
moment  in  his  heart ! 

'  You,  who  have  ready  excuses  for  your  Mary,'  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Stavers,  'what  apologies  have  you  to 
offer  for  mine  ?  ' 

'  The  same,'  murmured  Godfrey, '  the  same,  or  very 
similar.  Oh  !  let  us  not  be  hard  upon  the  young  ;  let 
us  not  demand  the  sacrifice  of  a  whole  life  as  the 
penalty  for  one  youthful  error.  Which  of  us  can  look 
back  on  his  own  youth,  and  not  feel  what  a  dangerous 
season  it  was  —  not  acknowledge  its  strong  impulses 
and  shallow  reasoning.?  if  we  escaped  its  rocks  and 
quicksands,  should  we  not  be  thankful  rather  than 
vain-glorious  ?  ' 

There  was  another  pause.     '  Mr.  Grey,'  said  Mr. 


THE   merchant's    CLERK.  247 

Stavers  at  last,  '  you  have  once  voluntarily  rendered 
me  a  service,  will  you  do  me  another  at  my  bidding  ? 
I  reached  Scotland  too  late  to  prevent  my  child's 
marriage,  and  I  have  since  refused  to  see  her  —  refused 
even  to  open  her  letters.  Will  you  see  her  —  you  — 
my  sympathizing,  confidential  friend  ?  Make  no  prom- 
ises, but  I  charge  you  with  no  threats.  See  him,  tell 
me  what  he  says,  what  he  does,  what  he  looks,  and 
then  advise  me.' 

Is  there  need  to  tell  with  what  tearful  joy  the  poor 
clerk  undertook  this  glad  commission?  Surely  not; 
but  this  we  may  say,  that  his  honest,  faithful  nature, 
and  his  warm  and  sympathizing  heart  rendered  him 
the  fittest  peace-maker  that  could  have  been  chosen. 
As  had  been  said  of  the  humbler  Mary's  husband, 
the  young  lieutenant  '  had  no  great  harm  in  him,' 
except  his  poverty ;  and  except  the  dark  fault  in 
which  both  shared,  that  of  tempting  a  young  and 
loving  girl  to  take  an  unwomanly  step,  and  wound  the 
heart  to  which  she  owed  the  deepest  gratitude.  But 
excellent  Godfrey  Grey  found  more  apologies  for  the 
young  people  than  in  their  humiliation  they  knew  how 
to  find  for  themselves.  After  many  interviews  with 
them,  he  at  last  was  the  bearer  of  forgiveness,  and 
at  last  brought  the  father  and  daughter  together.  It 
was  the  happiest  day  of  Godfrey's  life  hitherto,  yet  a 
few  perhaps,  still  happier  are  in  store  for  him  !  For  a 
large  increase  of  salary  for  himself,  and  the  patronage 
of  Mr.  Stavers  for  the  humbler  Mary's  young  husband, 
have  smoothed  down  difficulties  and  removed  disagree- 
ables in  a  remarkable  manner. 

My  memoir  of  the  Merchant  and  his  Clerk  is  draw- 


248  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

ing  to  a  close ;  but  it  has  failed  in  its  object  if  it  has 
not  shown  that  people  may  be  in  daily  personal  contact, 
and  yet  unknown  to  each  other  —  separated  as  if  by  a 
wall  of  adamant  —  by  pride,  coldness,  and  wrong 
impressions.  It  is  sad  to  think  how  often  hearts  which 
have  at  least  each  one  pulse  that  thrills  in  unison  with 
the  other,  and  probably  many  more  chords  of  sympa- 
thy, live  on  in  ignorance  of  the  life-sweets  they  are 
losing  —  live  on,  often  and  often  all  through  long  lives, 
because  they  do  not  make  opportunities  for  knowing 
each  other  better,  instead  of  waiting  for  the  rare  occa- 
sions which  sometimes  establish  sympathy  —  a  sym- 
pathy all  the  more  precious  and  soul-enlarging,  if  it 
exist  between  human  beings  widely  separated  by  for- 
tune and  station. 


OUR    NEW    SHOPS. 


It  is  not  worth  while  to  point  out  a  precise  locality 
for  the  story  I  have  to  tell.  Every  one  knows  how 
new  neighborhoods  arise  on  the  outskirts  of  old  ones, 
springing  up  by  the  builder's  art  with  almost  the 
rapidity  of  enchantment ;  altering  the  map  of  the  dis- 
trict completely,  and  puzzling  the  '  oldest  inhabitant' 
to  find  his  way  about,  should  business  or  pleasure  have 
driven  him  from  home  for  even  a  few  weeks,  or  illness 
have  kept  him  within  the  house.  I  always  feel  an 
interest  in  the  first  occupants  of  pretty  new  houses. 
Whether  they  are  a  young  couple  just  arrived  from 
the  bridal  tour,  in  the  busy  delight  of  arranging  their 
dwelling,  and  preparing  for  the  half  dreaded  reception 
days;  or  a  staid  elderly  pair  retiring  from  business, 
and  looking  forward  to  a  serene  old  age,  earned  and 
deserved  by  the  untiring  industry  of  youth  and  middle 
life,  there  always  seems  to  be  a  fresh  start  in  existence 
associated  with  a  new  house,  and  a  halo  of  hope  shed 
about  it,  which  seldom  belong  to  the  adoption  of  a  long 
used,  if  not  time-honored  residence.  And  if  such 
feelings  are  associated  with  the  '  Terraces,'  and  the 
'  Crescents,'   and  the  pretty  cottages,  called   Gothic, 


250  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

perhaps,  but  belong  to  no  order  of  architecture  under 
the  sun,  they  certainly  exist  in  a  tenfold  degree  in 
reference  to  the  rows  of  new  shops,  which  periain  to  a 
new  neighborhood,  in  an  indispensable  manner.  True, 
at  the  first  glance  the  subject  may  seem  less  pictur- 
esque, but  the  interest  arising  from  i£  is  far  more 
intense  :  just  as  to  my  mind  the  thronging  associations 
of  London  itself  are  more  full  of  heart-stirring  poetry, 
than  the  loveliest  scenes  over  which  a  painter  ever 
revelled. 

The  bold  adventurers  —  the  first  occupants  of  the 
new  shops !  The  broad  outlines  of  their  histories  are 
often  very  similar.  Too  poor  to  buy  an  established 
business,  they  seek  a  new  neighborhood  with  the  hope 
of  making  one ;  and  raise  the  money  necessary  for 
even  this  purpose,  by  stratagems  and  self-denial,  and 
the  sacrifice  of  independence,  and  too  often  a  suffer- 
ance of  painful  obligation,  of  which  the  afiluent  and 
well  to  do  can  form  but  a  faint  idea.  There  is  no 
doubt  that  a  new  shop — just  as  youth  can  dispense 
with  many  of  the  adventitious  ornaments  of  dress 
—  may  make  a  respectable  appearance  with  fewer 
equipments  than  are  necessary  to  the  old  dusty,  rusty 
looking  shelves  and  counter.  Besides,  for  a  consider- 
able time,  it  looks  as  if  it  were  still  undergoing  the 
process  of  furnishing,  and  a  visitor  is  inclined  to  judge 
favorably  of  the  future  from  the  promises  of  the 
present.  If  the  first  occupant  can  struggle  through  a 
twelvemonth,  he  has  a  fair  chance  of  success,  but  how 
often  do  we  find,  at  the  end  of  less  than  half  that  time, 
the  shutters  closed,  and  a  board  affixed  indicating  that 
the  house  is  again  to  let :  or  perhaps  the  announce- 


OUK   NEW    SHOPS.  251 

ment  —  'This  shop  will  be  opened  next  week  as  a 
butcher's ; '  or  the  linen-draper's  converted  into  a 
cheesemonger's  with  almost  the  dexterity  which  fol- 
lows the  touch  of  a  harlequin's  wand.  And  then 
comes  a  new  question  —  an  enigma  for  time  to  solve 
—  will  the  second  comer  be  more  fortunate  than  his 
predecessor,  or  he  too  be  a  Curtius  in  the  gulf?  As 
genius  that '  is  before  its  time '  fails  to  be  appreciated, 
and  finds  no  portion  of  the  earth's  inheritance  par- 
celled out  for  its  mundane  uses ;  so  the  shopkeeper 
who  comes  before  he  is  wanted,  meets  a  bitter  lot,  and 
barrenness  in  return  for  all  his  industry  ! 

Our  New  Shops  stand  in  the  high  road ;  where  it 
seems  but  the  other  day  was  all  open  ground,  with  a 
ditch  running  between  it  and  the  path  :  were  the  day  ever 
so  calm,  there  was  always  a  breeze  in  passing  along, 
and  in  boisterous  weather  one  found  oneself  between 
the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  the  ditch  and  the  road, 
whither  weak-limbed  pedestrians  were  often  drifted  at 
the  will  of  the  winds.  But  the  land  was  drained  ;  the 
ditch  dried  up  ;  foundations  sunk  ;  and  houses  built 
before  half  the  neighbors  knew  what  was  going  to 
happen  ;  and  wonderment  as  to  what  shops  they  would 
be  had  not  half  exhausted  itself,  when  their  physiog- 
nomy was  openly  revealed,  and  cards  and  notes  sent 
round  to  every  house,  soliciting  patronage,  and  promis- 
ing, of  course, '  dispatch  and  punctuality,'  the  '  best ' 
goods  at  the  '  lowest '  prices,  '  indefatigable  attention,' 
and  the  '  newest  improvements.' 

The  houses  were  finished,  and  the  first  occupants 
entered  within  a  very  few  weeks  of  each  other ;  and 
great  was  the  sensation  created  thereby.     Everybody 


252  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

was  inclined  to  '  try '  something  from  the  new  shops, 
and  from  the  proverbial  excellence  of  samples  most 
people  were  satisfied  with  the  results.  Nevertheless, 
by  that  principle  of  conservatism  which  is  part  of  the 
national  character,  the  greater  number  of  temporary 
customers  went  back  to  their  old  tradespeople,  putting 
up  with  the  inconvenience  of  the  distance  so  often 
complained  of  in  the  '  olden  time.'  To  the  thoughtful 
observer,  it  was  pretty  evident  the  new  shops  would 
have  a  hard  struggle,  ere  they  could  be  expected  to 
prosper.  Now  as  necessaries  are  sought  before  luxu- 
ries, it  may  be  taken  as  a  pretty  general  rule,  that  the 
dealers  in  food  settling  in  a  new  neighborhood  have  a 
better  chance  of  success  than  they  who  open  empo- 
riums of  more  superfluous  articles.  People  have  daily 
need  of  bread,  and  meat,  and  tea,  and  butter,  and 
commonly  procure  them  at  the  nearest  depot,  whereas 
they  can  bide  their  time  about  the  purchase  of  a  new 
coat  or  dress,  and  commonly  take  the  recommenda- 
tion of  a  friend  in  selecting  a  silversmith  or  uphol- 
sterer. Consequently,  the  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the 
general  dealer,  were  among  the  new  comers  those  who 
flourished  the  most  speedily  and  decidedly  ;  and  it  is 
to  the  last  mentioned  I  would  more  particularly  refer. 

George  West  was  a  young  man  of  five  or  six  and 
twenty.  He  had  started  in  business  with  the  advan- 
tage of  being  unincumbered  by  debt,  having  recently 
inherited  a  legacy  of  a  few  hundred  pounds  from  a 
relative,  which  money  had  stocked  his  shop  and  fur- 
nished his  house,  and  left  him  still  somewhat  before 
the  world.  He  could  afford  to  wait  a  little  while  till 
business  gathered  round  him ;  and  gather  it  did,  for  in 


OTJE   NEW    SHOPS.  253 

the  first  place  such  a  shop  as  his  was  greatly  wanted 
in  the  district,  and  secondly  he  had  good  articles,  which 
joined  to  strict  integrity  and  attention  on  his  part  soon 
won  him  patrons  and  friends.  Occupied  with  his 
business  and  intent  upon  it,  he  had  small  time  for 
either  listening  to,  or  repeating  gossip,  and  perhaps 
knew  less  of  the  affairs  of  his  neighbors  than  any  one 
in  the  '  row.'  Pretty  near  all  he  did  glean  was  from 
his  woman-servant,  a  middle-aged  body  who  had  been 
in  the  service  of  his  deceased  uncle  many  years,  and 
who  now  thought  herself  entitled  to  advise  her  youth- 
ful employer  in  all  matters  in  which  it  appeared  to 
her  that  experience  should  give  her  authority.  Truth 
to  tell,  Patty  was  not  always  a  good  angel  at  her 
master's  elbow.  The  same  advice  which  is  very 
valuable  to  the  open-handed  or  the  spendthrift,  may  be 
something  more  than  unnecessary  to  one  whose  exam- 
ple has  been  parsimony,  and  whose  habits  are  frugal. 
George  West  was  not  by  nature  either  mean  or  selfish, 
but  at  this  time  he  was  very  much  the  creature  of  early 
habits  and  example,  and  he  certainly  loved  money 
without  very  clearly  defining  if  it  were  for  itself  or  its 
noble  uses. 

It  was  commonly  while  laying  the  cloth  for  her 
master's  bread  and  cheese  supper,  after  the  shop  was 
closed,  that  Patty  opened  her  budget.  By  the  way, 
Patty  belonged  to  the  old  school,  and  was  quite  op- 
posed to  the  early  closing  movement :  she  thought 
shopkeepers  should  take  money  as  long  as  it  was 
offered  them,  and  was  far  too  obtuse  to  understand  that 
if  people  could  not  purchase  what  they  wanted  after 
six  o'clock,  they  would  contrive  to  do  so  before.     She 


254  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

thought  reading  and  improving  the  nnind  all  '  rubbish,' 
or,  at  best,  only  '  fit  for  gentlefolks.'  And  yet  Patty 
was  not  hard-hearted,  she  was  only  ignorant  and 
prejudiced.  Only!  Alas,  what  an  admission  —  for 
ignorance  and  prejudice  are  more  fruitful  causes  of 
suffering  than  hard-heartedness  itself! 

'  Have  the  Smiths  paid  that  bill }  '  asked  Patty,  as 
she  placed  the  loaf  upon  the  table. 

'  No,'  replied  West,  '  1  think  I  will  send  in  for  it 
to-morrow.' 

*  You'll  not  get  it  for  once  sending,  I  can  tell  you,' 
continued  Martha ;  '  they  are  all  going  to  the  mischief, 
it  is  pretty  plain.  Hardly  a  bit  of  business  doing  — 
go  in  when  you  will  —  though  that  stuck-up  son  makes 
himself  mighty  busy,  rolling  and  unrolling  the  silks 
and  the  ribbons,  to  hide  that  he  has  nothing  better  to 
do.' 

'  I  am  very  sorry,'  said  West,  '  for  really  they  seem 
a  respectable  and  industrious  family.' 

'  Respectable,  indeed  !  respectable  people  pay  their 
bills  every  week.' 

'  Well,  I'll  send  in  to-morrow  ;  I  should  not  like  to 
lose  my  money.' 

'  I  should  think  not,  indeed  I  Then  there's  the 
Burtons  next  door  —  pray  do  you  ever  expect  to  see 
their  two  pound  fifteen  and  sixpence  ?  ' 

'  Perhaps  not,'  said  the  young  tradesman  with  a 
sigh,  '  but  the  loss  will  not  ruin  me,  and  I  cannot 
find  in  my  heart  to  be  hard  upon  a  lone  widow 
woman.'    ■ 

'  Mr.  George ! '  exclaimed  Patty,  dropping  a  knife, 
and  very  nearly  damaging  the  crockery,  in  her  aston- 


OUR   NEW   SHOPS.  255 

isbment  and  indignation,  '  that's  not  the  way  to  do 
business.  I'm  sure  it's  enough  to  bring  your  dear  dead 
uncle  out  of  his  grave,  to  hear  you  talk  so.  Lone 
widow,  indeed !  Lone  widows  should  not  run  into 
debt,  and  then  they  would  keep  out  of  trouble.  But  I 
spoke  my  mind  this  morning,  I  can  tell  you.' 

'  You  did !  And  whom  to  ? '  replied  West,  starting 
in  his  chair. 

'  Why  to  that  minx  of  a  daughter.  Just  to  look  at 
her  little  white  hands  when  she  ties  up  a  parcel,  or  lifts 
down  a  book,  might  convince  any  one  they  had  never 
done  a  day's  work  in  her  life  :  and  pride  and  poverty 
is  what  I  can't  abide.' 

'  I  never  saw  any  pride,'  said  George  West,  gravely, 
'  and  I  am  very  sorry,  very  angry,  Martha,  if  you  have 
been  rude  about  the  bill.  Even  if  they  are  proud,  you 
ought  to  make  some  allowance,  for  Miss  Burton  has 
been  genteelly  brought  up ;  her  father  was  a  gentle- 
man, they  say,  and  it's  a  great  fall  in  the  world  to 
come  down  to  keeping  a  little  stationer's  shop  and 
circulating  library.' 

'  A  pretty  gentleman,  indeed  !  That  did'nt  leave 
enough  to  bury  him.  I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  George, 
gentility  is  just  worth  what  grist  it  will  bring  to  the 
mill,  and  I  don't  understand  what  it  has  to  do  with 
your  two  pound  fifteen  and  sixpence,'  and  the  elderly 
spinster  bounced  out  of  the  room  in  anything  but  a 
gentle  mood. 

George  West  felt  more  annoyed  than  he  had  done 
for  a  long  time.  He  did  not  relish  his  frugal  supper 
so  much  as  usual ;  and  his  uncomfortable  feelings 
even  disturbed  his  rest.     The  way  to  confer  a  kindness 


256  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

delicately  seldom  occurs  very  readily  to  people  unac- 
customed to  such  an  exercise  ;  and  it  must  be  owned 
the  nobler  qualities  of  his  heart  were  at  present,  for 
want  of  exercise,  but  partially  developed.  And  yet  a 
sort  of  instinct  prompted  him  to  do  something  to  remove 
the  unpleasant  impression  he  felt  sure  his  officious  ser- 
vant had  created.  Certainly,  Patty  had  anything  but  a 
blessing  from  her  young  master  that  night ;  but  finally, 
he  resolved  that  he  would  go  into  the  stationer's  shop 
the  next  day,  make  some  purchase,  and  see  what 
turn  events  might  take.  And  this  resolution  arrived 
at,  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  —  of  the  price  of 
sugars,  and  a  shameful  imposition  of  sloe-leaves  for 
tea! 

Alas  !  for  poor  Mrs.  Burton's  speculation  !  She  was 
'  before  her  time  :  '  a  fancy  stationer's  or  circulating 
library  was  not  yet  wanted  in  the  new  neighborhood  ; 
and  the  absence  of  occupation  for  herself  and  daugh- 
ter in  the  business  of  the  shop,  gave  ample  leisure  for 
thought  —  sad  recollections  of  the  past  and  gloomy 
forebodings  for  the  future.  Alice  was  indefatigable  in 
her  exertions.  The  most  tasteful  articles  which  orna- 
mented the  shop  window,  and  attracted  the  passers  by, 
were  made  by  her;  and  the  Berlin  wool-work  which 
had  lately  been  added  to  their  stock  were  all  improve- 
ments upon  the  formal  patterns.  It  was  about  seven 
o'clock  on  a  summer  evening,  and  she  was  seated  in 
the  little  back  parlor,  busily  employed  on  a  large  piece 
of  canvass,  when  George  West  paid  his  intended  visit. 
Not  a  step  had  crossed  the  threshold  for  the  last  hour ; 
and  the  widow  moved  quickly  forward  to  ask  the 
stranger's  wishes  —  for  she  did  not  at  the  moment  re- 


OUR   NEW   SHOPS.  257 

cognise  her  '  creditor.'  Attired  in  his  holiday  suit,  and 
with  scrupulous  neatness,  the  young  tradesman  looked 
a  different  personage  from  the  eager  man  of  business 
behind  his  counter.  Alice  had  involuntarily  looked  up 
and  acknowledged  her  recognition  of  their  neighbor 
by  a  slight  bow,  but  had  bent  again  immediately  over 
her  work. 

Perhaps  had  Alice  Burton  sat  for  her  picture,  she 
would  not  have  appeared  to  more  advantage  than  she 
did  on  this  chance  occasion.  Her  well-fitting  mourning 
dress  set  off  her  slight  but  symmetrical  figure  to  advan- 
tage, and  contrasted  favorably  with  a  complexion  that 
was  pale  without  being  sickly.  The  slanting  rays  of 
the  western  sun  threw  her  person  into  shadow,  con- 
cealing the  shabbiness  of  her  attire,  but  glancing  on 
the  plaited  masses  of  her  rich  brown  hair,  and  drawing 
out  that  golden  light  which  only  sunshine  can.  While 
the  bright  tints  of  scarlet,  and  purple,  and  green,  and 
amber  wools  growing  into  meaning  beneath  her  fingers 
were  not  without  their  effect. 

The  widow's  cheek  flushed  from  many  painful 
emotions,  as  she  recognised  young  West ;  for  she  had 
little  doubt  he  came  to  require  the  payment  of  a  bill 
she  had  not  the  money  to  discharge.  How  was  she 
surprised  when,  instead  of  alluding  to  it,  he  made 
friendly  inquiries  about  the  health  of  herself  and  Miss 
Burton  —  offered  some  commonplace  remarks  on  the 
weather,  and  then  inquired  the  price  of  a  pair  of  screens 
which  were  exhibited  for  sale  in  the  window. 

'Alice,  my  love,'  said  Mrs.  Burton,  appealing  to  her 
daughter,  '  I  do  not  understand  this  mark,  will  you  tell 
me  what  these  are  prized  at  ? ' 
17 


258  ENGLISH    TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

And  Alice  came  forward  to  give  the  desired  infor- 
mation, in  the  doing  which  it  was  elicited  that  the 
screens  were  painted  by  her.  Had  the  sum  been  five 
times  that  named,  George  West  would  now  have  made 
the  purchase  ;  as  it  was,  without  demur  he  took  the 
money  from  his  pocket,  watching  the  while  every 
movement  of  the  white  hands  which  Patty  had  re- 
marked as  they  folded  the  screens  in  paper.  Again 
the  color  mounted  to  Mrs.  Burton's  cheek  as  she  gently 
pushed  back  the  sovereign  he  had  laid  down  for 
change,  saying  —  'No,  Sir,  we  are  in  your  debt  much 
more  than  this  —  pray  let  your  purchase  be  placed  to 
that  account.' 

It  was  George  West's  turn  now  to  look  confused. 
The  proposition  was  so  reasonable  and  natural  a  one, 
that  he  had  nothing  to  say  against  it,  and  yet  the  idea 
of  her  painting  being  bartered  for  such  commodities 
as  sugar  and  cheese,  and  soap  and  candles,  had  some- 
thing in  it  against  which  his  feelings  revolted.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  other  plan  of  soothing  them  than  to 
make  his  purchases  far  outweigh  the  amount  of  the 
widow's  debt.  He  looked  round  —  there  was  nothing 
else  of  Alice's  work  which  it  would  not  have  seemed 
absurd  for  him  to  appropriate  ;  and  meanwhile  he  had 
fallen  into  conversation  with  her,  during  which  allusion 
was  made  to  the  cheap  literature  of  the  day,  the  most 
choice  of  which  lay  in  profusion  on  the  counter.  Alice 
possessed  that  fine  taste  which  in  all  things  instinctively 
selects  the  good  and  leaves  the  indiflferent  as  refuse  ; 
and  though  really  but  little  indebted  to  teachers  for  in- 
struction, she  was  for  her  station  in  life  well  informed. 
The  young  tradesman  felt  her  superiority,  but  without 


OUR    NEW    SHOPS.  259 

any  painful  humiliation  to  himself.  It  only  made  his 
reverence  and  admiration  the  deeper ;  and  at  the 
recommendation  of  Alice  he  expended  several  pounds 
in  books,  and  in  purchasing  sets  and  back  numbers  of 
established  publications. 

But  George  West  could  not  stand  all  the  evening 
talking  across  the  counter;  and  from  a  mingled  feeling 
of  pride,  and  sense  of  obligation,  and  many  emotions 
she  would  have  been  at  a  loss  to  analyze,  Mrs.  Burton 
did  not  invite  him  into  the  parlor.  As  for  l*atty's  in- 
dignation on  discovering  her  master's  '  extravagance,' 
anything  short  of  her  own  vocabulary  would  be  insuf- 
ficient to  describe  it.  A  vivid  imagination  may  picture 
the  scene  which  followed  —  a  scene  that  would  have 
been  entirely  ludicrous,  had  there  not  been  something 
really  piteous  in  the  old  woman's  evident  anguish. 
The  screens  —  not  suspecting  they  were  Alice's  own 
production  —  she  might  have  tolerated.  '  Yes,  they 
were  pretty,  and  would  look  well  on  the  up-stairs 
chimney-piece  —  not  that  he  wanted  such  things  at 
all :  but  as  for  books  —  what  good  could  they  do  him  ? 
—  what  use  were  they,  except  to  come  into  the  shop 
as  waste-paper  ? '  Poor  Martha  !  —  for  one  must  pity 
a  deposed  tyrant  —  and  not  suspecting  that  a  new  dy- 
nasty was  established,  she  believed  that  chaos  was  come 
again  in  the  wreck  and  revolution  she  witnessed.  The 
tears  rolled  down  her  withered  cheeks  as  she  left  her 
master  after  supper,  with  a  fresh  candle  just  set  up, 
and  the  pile  of  his  new  purchases  by  his  side.  Her 
prophetic  fears  told  her  that  he  would  read  till  mid- 
night, and  she  turned  away  with  gesture  and  expression 


260  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

something  like   those   of    Hogarth's   steward   in   the 
Marriage  d-Ia-Mode  ! 

And  night  after  night  was  Martha  doomed  to  witness 
a  similar  arrangement.  At  first,  George  West  devoted 
the  end  of  his  toiling  day  to  reading,  because  the  books 
and  journals  he  had  purchased  were  those  Alice  Burton 
had  recovnmended  ;  but  eis  weeks  and  months  passed 
on,  and  these  were  exhausted  and  fresh  ones  procured, 
he  read  because  the  enlargement  and  cultivation  of 
his  mind  had  grown  to  be  a  moral  want  of  his  nature. 
What  a  debt  of  obligation  he  owed  to  the  gentle  girl 
who  had  thus  led  him  to  a  new  and  brighter  world  than 
that  he  had  dwelt  in  before  !  A  debt  which  from  the 
depths  of  his  heart  he  understood  and  acknowledged. 
Yet,  as  day  by  day  he  became  really  more  worthy  of 
the  love  to  which  he  had  aspired,  his  own  diffidence 
increased  —  till  he  shuddered  to  remember  how,  in  the 
early  days  of  their  acquaintance,  he  had  dared  almost 
to  avow  his  admiration,  and  had  met  with  a  silent  yet 
chilling  rebuke,  which  he  now  felt  was  less  severe  than 
his  presumption  merited. 

And  who  was  Alice  Burton,  who  had  worked  such 
a  spell  on  the  heart  of  the  thrifty  thriving  tradesman  ? 
Only  a  very  woman  such  as — thank  God  !  —  the  world 
abounds  with.  It  was  true  her  father  had  been  '  a 
g&ntleman,'  an  officer  whom  adverse  fortune  had  com- 
pelled to  sell  his  commission  ;  but  through  such  straits 
of  poverty  and  sore  distress  had  Alice  been  reared, 
that  her  advantages  of  education  had  really  been  infi- 
nitely inferior  to  those  of  George  West.  It  was  the 
instinct  of  her  sex  and  her  nature  which  had  taught 
her,  apparently  from  such  sterile  opportunities,  taste, 


•  OITR   NEW    SHOPS.  261 

refinement,  and  that  peculiar  understanding  of  the 
fitness  of  all  things,  which  is  a  gift  to  the  soul  only 
second  to  genius  itself.  Who  can  fathom  the  myste- 
rious laws  by  which  the  odorous  garden-flower  de- 
velops its  beautiful  being  from  the  same  soil  and 
atmosphere  that  feed  a  thousand  noxious  weeds  ? 

Oh,  Love  —  Love !  That  tale  as  old  as  Eve  in 
Paradise,  and  yet  for  ever  new ;  that  Power  which  has 
swayed  the  hearts  of  the  world's  rulers,  and  yet  given 
strength  to  the  weakest,  and  taken  refuge  in  the  breast 
of  the  hind.  Love,  the  sustainer  —  ennobler  —  and 
purifier  ;  for  no  one  ever  really  loved  without  becom- 
ing —  however  good  and  great  before  —  a  better  and 
nobler  being.  Thousands  pass  off  the  stage  of  life  — 
aye,  spouses  and  parents  too  —  in  utter  ignorance  of 
that  Divine  Mystery,  or  mistaking  for  that  which  is  the 
most  generous  emotion  of  the  soul,  a  degrading  and 
selfish  passion.  Let  us  hope  all  things  from  the  nature 
that  is  capable  of  loving ;  and  let  us  cease  to  rail  at 
a  world  which  Love  illumines,  even  though  its  light 
shines  fitfully  and  feebly,  obscured  by  the  mists  of 
narrow  teaching,  and  its  tongue  is  constrained  to 
silence  by  senseless  deafening  raillery.  Let  the  Poets 
plead  :  they  are  the  only  Truth  Tellers  ! 

The  true  Lover  is  no  selfish  idle  dreamer ;  be  his 
station  what  it  may,  he  must  act  the  poetry  his  heart 
conceives  :  and  George  West  was  no  exception  to  the 
rule.  During  the  very  lime  that  his  evenings  were 
devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  his  mind,  and  every  hope 
of  his  heart  was  centred  in  the  thought  of  growing 
more  worthy  of  Alice  Burton,  his  business  increased 
beyond  his  warmest  expectations.    Nor  was  this  sur- 


262  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

prising.  No  time-exhausting,  or  expensive,  or  thought- 
distracting  pleasures,  had  taken  him  from  the  duties  of 
his  station  ;  and  in  a  few  months  he  was  the  most  pros- 
perous tradesman  in  the  '  row.'  Already  had  he  saved 
sufficient  money  to  carry  out  what  had  once  been  a 
most  dear  object  —  the  purchase  of  the  house  he  occu- 
pied. But  now  it  must  be  differently  bestowed  ;  he 
became  the  owner  of  the  '  next  door,'  taking  upon 
himself  the  arrears  of  rent  due  from  Mrs.  Burton,  and 
becoming,  be  sure,  a  lenient  landlord. 

Not  yet  had  a  word  of  love  been  spoken,  though 
both  remembered  the  occasion  which  George  thought 
of  with  so  much  regret.  On  the  part  of  Alice,  too, 
there  was  some  remorse  :  now  she  felt  that  she  bad 
been  unnecessarily  cold  and  harsh.  How  strange  the 
change  his  silent,  respectful  homage  had  effected,  aye, 
and  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  his  whole 
bearing  and  character  since  Love's  holy  influence  had 
sway.  Alice  wondered  if  he  really  were  altered,  or  if 
it  had  been  some  strange  fancy  which  had  painted  him 
on  their  first  acquaintance  as  commonplace  and  unin- 
teresting. 

Again  Alice  sat  in  the  little  parlor,  with  the  bright- 
hued  threads  growing  into  forms  of  beauty  beneath  her 
fingers.  But  now  the  season  was  towards  the  close  of 
a  long  and  dreary  winter ;  and  instead  of  western  sun- 
light, the  flickering  fire  and  the  beams  of  a  shaded 
lamp  lit  up  the  room.  Mrs.  Burton  was  engaged  in 
attending  to  the  wants  of  two  or  three  ladies  in  the 
shop,  and  agitated  and  excited  by  some  information 
she  had  just  received,  was  anything  but  expeditious  in 
supplying  them.    She  had  learned  within  that  hour  that 


OtTR   NEW    SHOPS.  263 

their  young  neighbor  was  now  their  landlord  ;  and  on 
this  fact,  relying,  as  she  did,  on  his  forbearance  with 
regard  to  the  arrears  of  rent,  she  built  anew  bright 
hopes  of  ultimate  success,  and  of,  at  last,  a  thriving 
business.  Like  the  over-sanguine  in  general,  she  be- 
lieved that  time  was  all  she  needed. 

It  was  at  this  moment  George  West  entered,  and 
nodding  good-humoredly  to  Mrs.  Burton,  passed  on, 
with  the  familiarity  of  an  intimate  acquaintance,  to  the 
little  pdrlor.  Alice  had  thought  he  would  come  in  that 
evening,  and  yet  his  step  made  her  heart  beat  more 
quickly  —  that  heart  which  was  so  full  of  strange  con- 
tending feelings,  and  in  which  gratitude  was  to  her  own 
consciousness  the  most  apparent.  Her  embarrassment 
was  evident ;  yet  it  did  not  pain  George  West :  on  the 
contrary  he  saw  in  it  something  of  encouragement,  and 
he  grew  emboldened  enough  to  hold  her  hand  for  a 
moment  longer  than  ordinary  greeting  demanded. 
Alice  blushed,  and  the  tears  started  —  nay,  rolled 
down  her  cheeks,  as  she  felt  constrained  to  utter  some 
expressions  of  gratitude ;  for  the  widow  and  her  daugh- 
ter had  already  received  many  kindnesses  at  his  hands, 
and  it  would  have  been  affectation  to  have  seemed 
ignorant  of  the  generous  purpose  which  had  actuated 
his  purchase  of  the  house.  George  West  stammered 
forth  some  commonplace  rejoinder ;  but  that  moment 
of  confusion  broke  away  a  barrier  of  reserve  ;  for  the 
first  time  a  wild  hope  darted  through  his  frame,  that 
Alice  deigned  to  regard  him  a  thought  more  warmly 
than  as  a  kind  friend  ;  while  on  her  part  she  could  no 
longer  doubt  that  she  was  the  object  of  a  deep  attach- 


264  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

ment.  With  this  knowledge  came  a  thorough  appre- 
ciation of  his  generous  forbearance. 

Time  had  been  when  Alice  Burton,  despite  her  own 
fallen  fortunes,  had  been  strongly  imbued  with  the 
foolishest  of  all  foolish  false  pride  ;  that  which  attaches 
nominal  rank  to  nominal  station.  But  though  yet 
little  more  than  twenty  years  old,  the  sorrows  and 
struggles  of  life,  and  contact  with  its  realities,  had 
taught  her  a  nobler  lesson.  In  the  days  when  even 
sumptuary  laws  prevailed,  things  were  very  different. 
But  now,  with  a  wiser  generation,  class  distinctions 
have  really  little  or  no  weight.  True,  we  still  decline 
associating  intimately  with  the  masses  greatly  below 
us  in  station  ;  but  only  because^  for  the  most  part,  they 
are  deficient  in  the  cultivation  of  mind  which  would 
render  them  companions  ;  in  the  tone  of  feeling  con- 
genial to  our  own  ;  and  in  those  manners  and  habits 
which  are  the  atmosphere  of  our  social  existence. 
The  ignorant  and  vulgar  are  too  apt  to  slight  the  last 
attributes  as  frivolous  and  unmeaning  attainments  ;  but 
a  wider  grasp  of  thought  will  teach  them  that  a  whole- 
some refinement  of  manner  is  but  the  outward  sign  of 
an  indescribable  but  all-prevading  essence  most  essen- 
tial to  real  Progress.  Let  the  individual,  though  still 
remaining  of  his  class,  yet  raise  himself  by  his  mental 
and  moral  qualities  above  its  standard,  and  he  will 
find  the  ready  hand  held  out  —  no  shrinking  on  the 
part  of  his  so-called  superiors  from  equalizing  associa- 
tion. 

Alice  Burton  had  grown  to  think  George  West  as 

complete  a  '  gentleman  '  as  she  had  ever  known 

But  why  go  on  ?     The  reader  has  already  arrived  at 


OUE   NEW    SHOPS.  265 

the  sequel,  and  intermediate  details  are  becoming 
tedious.  But  it  was  not  that  night  he  dared  to  breathe 
his  tale, —  no,  nor  for  many  subsequent  evenings,  when 
he  sat  watching  her  nimble  fingers,  and  really  saying 
very  little,  considering  how  much  there  was  he  longed 
to  tell !  At  last  —  it  was  some  weeks  afterwards,  and 
Mrs.  Burton  had  been  more  than  commonly  engaged 
in  the  shop  —  some  word  was  dropped  —  they  hardly 
know  themselves  how  it  came  about  —  in  short,  it  was 
the  old  yet  ever  new  scene,  which  everybody  can 
either   remember   or   imagine.      Tears  —  confessions 

—  endearing  words — not  vows  —  there  was  no  occa- 
sion for  them^  being  but  too  often  the  spurious  coinage 
of  insincerity. 

All  this  happened  three  years  since  !  There  was  a 
wedding  long  ago.  Mrs.  West  is  very  seldom  seen  in 
her  husband's  business  ;  but  she  is  an  excellent  wife, 
nevertheless,  and  manages  his  household  and  keeps 
his  accounts  admirably.  Nor  are  these  any  trifling 
tasks,  1  assure  you  ;  for  he  has  been  obliged  to  pur- 
chase the  other  '  next  door,'  and  throw  it  into  his  own 
shop,  and  has  full  employment  for  several  busy  assist- 
ants. Mrs.  Burton  has  also  by  this  time  an  excellent 
business,  and,  to  tell  a  family  secret,  is  to  pay  rent  for 
her  house,  some  day  or  another. 

I  had  nearly  forgotten  to  chronicle  Patty's  destiny. 
She  could  not  live  under  the  new  system  of  things 

—  the  attempt  would  have  broken  her  heart.  And  so 
she  has  gone  to  reside  with  her  friends  in  the  country, 
on  the  savings  of  her  long  and  penurious  life.  Be  sure 
her  nephews  and  nieces  have  due  reverence  for  her 


266  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

opinions,  and  avoid  offering  her  any  temptations  to 
extravagance.  They  believe,  above  all  things,  in  mat- 
tresses Stuffed  with  bank  notes,  and  old  stockings  full 
of  gold ! 


A  STORY  OF  WAYS  AND   MEANS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  their  dull,  dim  parlor,  Mrs.  Hargrave  and  her 
daughter  were  seated ;  Caroline  on  a  footstool  by 
her  mother's  side.  The  house  was  in  one  of  those 
grey-looking  streets  which  abound  in  London,  though 
many  a  denizen  of  the  metropolis  little  heeds  their 
existence.  Branching  indirectly  from,  and  therefore 
generally  parallel  with,  some  great  thoroughfare,  they 
are  thoroughfares  themselves,  but  threaded  so  little 
as  such,  that  the  fact  is  almost  forgotten,  till  the  neces- 
sary (or  unnecessary)  nuisance  of  a  paving  perplex- 
ity breaks  up  the  high  road,  dams  up  the  stream  of 
traffic,  and  sends  its  rushing  tide  of  vehicles  for  days 
or  weeks  together  down  the  '  quiet  street,'  waking 
its  slumbering  echoes  with  a  ceaseless  roar,  breaking 
the  nightly  repose  of  its  inhabitants,  and  working 
a  revolution  in  its  local  customs.  But  the  street  I 
mean  was  distinguished  by  a  further  peculiarity  from 
the  general  class  to  which  it  belonged.  It  was  an 
artist-street,  the  sign  thereof  being  that  here  and  there 
a  window,  as  if  regardless  of  the  symmetry  of  out- 
ward appearance,  soared  upwards,  apparently  ambi- 
tious of  communicating  with  its  neighbor  overhead, 


268  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

And  Mr.  Hargrave  was  a  painter ;  one  of  a  band  so 
numerous,  that  no  one  can  fancy,  in  the  description 
of  him,  that  an  individual  is  sketched.  A  man  of 
talent,  not  genius;  with  more  aspiration  than  power; 
and  imbued  with  that  selfish,  self-willed  egotism  which, 
though  it  may  sometimes  overshadow  a  great  mind, 
much  oftener  dwarfs  to  still  narrower  dimensions,  and 
shrivels  up  a  little  one. 

I  have  said  it  was  a  dull,  dim  parlor,  but  not  a  dirty 
or  dingy  one  ;  for  neatness  and  cleanliness  were  as 
apparent  as  the  shabbiness  of  the  furniture.  If  curtains 
and  chair  covers  were  faded,  it  was  from  washing 
as  well  as  from  wear.  Poverty  reigned  there  with  his 
iron  sceptre,  and  his  heel  on  all  the  flowers  of  life, 
but  he  wore  a  mask,  half  pride,  half  resignation,  and 
his  aspect  was  less  repellant  than  it  often  is,  when  his 
rule  is  far  less  cruel  and  despotic.  The  first  floor  of 
the  house  was  occupied  by  the  artist  as  a  studio. 
There  pictures  were  painted  which  did,  or  did  not, 
bring  golden  returns  ;  there  patrons  —  the  few  he  had 

—  tt'ere  received  ;  and  there  he  indulged  his  dreams  of 
future  fame  and  appreciation,  railing  at  the  dullness  of 
the  multitude,  because  it  failed  to  call  him  great,  and 

—  in  one  sense  happily  for  himself — wrapping  him- 
self in  his  self-consciousness  as  in  a  protecting  gar- 
ment of  egotism,  which  shut  out  all  the  vulgar  cares 
of  life.  He  little  thought  —  and  he  could  not  have 
been  made  to  comprehend  —  that  his  very  selfishness 
was  the  barrier  to  true  greatness.  Intellect,  knowledge, 
learning,  a  life-long  practice  in  the  mechanism  of  his 
Art  —  all  these  he  had,  but  he  wanted  the  generous 
pulse  of  feeling  which  would  have  added  a  soul  to  the 


A  STOET  OF  WAYS  AND  MEANS.       269 

evidences  of  mind,  and  warmed  with  the  heart-fire  of 
Genius  his  clever  cold  creations  ! 

He  did  not  know  —  and  he  could  not  have  been 
taught  to  comprehend  —  that  the  calm,  patient,  care- 
worn wife,  deputed  to  the  ignoble  tasks  of  domestic 
drudgery  ;  to  the  ingenious  stratagems  by  which  she 
strove  to  make  one  sovereign  fulfil  the  legitimate  ser- 
vices of  two ;  and  to  the  painful  interviews  when  press- 
ing tradesmen  begged  the  settlement  of  long  standing 
accounts  ;  had  acted  a  finer  poem  in  her  forty  years 
of  life,  than  his  brain  had  ever  imagined,  or  his  pen- 
cil executed.  I  have  said  that  she  and  her  daughter 
were  seated  in  that  dark  parlor,  but  few  would  have 
guessed  how  occupied.  The  employment  will  appear 
little  profitable,  nay,  perhaps  on  the  contraiy,  it  may 
seem  to  belong  to  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  life* 
Briefly,  then,  by  the  mingled  lights  of  winter  twilight 
and  a  bright,  if  not  large  fire,  she  was  plaiting  and 
braiding  her  daughter's  rich  dark  hair.  From  Caro- 
line's early  childhood  it  had  been  the  doting  mother's 
pride ;  no  other  hand  had  ever  tended  it,  from  the  days 
of  the  golden  curls, through  all  their  deepening  shades, 
till  now,  in  its  rich  profusion,  her  hair  was  of  that  dark 
hue  which  looks  black  until  sun-light  or  fire-light 
brings  out  its  greater  brilliance.  Helpful  in  most 
things  beyond  the  average  of  her  age  and  condition, 
in  one  respect  Caroline  Hargrave  was  helpless  to  the 
last  degree.  Beyond  gathering  up  her  long  hair  with 
a  comb,  or  parting  it  in  thick  locks,  when  damp  from 
Its  frequent  bath,  the  maiden  of  sixteen  had  not  a  no- 
tion of  arranging  her  greatest  adornment.  Deep  and 
beautiful  as  was  the  mutual  attachment  of  the  mother 


270  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

and  her  only  child,  to  my  mind  there  was  something 
touching  in  the  phase  of  it  I  am  describing.  The  sym- 
metrical figure  bursting  into  the  perfection  of  its  rounded 
beauty,  was  little  likely  to  have  gayer  apparel  than  the 
home-made  cotton  gown  ;  the  little  foot  was  commonly 
disguised  in  cheap  and  clumsy  shoes  ;  the  small  and 
well  shaped  hand  had  never  known  a  Parisian  glove  ; 
and  her  fair  young  face  and  violet  blue  eyes  had  never 
been  'setoff'  by  the  witchery  of  a  '  darling'  bonnet. 
The  coarsest  straw,  or  dowdy  combinations  of  myste- 
rious manufacture  w^ere  the  only  head-gear  she  had 
ever  possessed  —  but  the  beautiful  hair  !  that  at  least 
the  mother  could  control,  and  limb-wearied,  or  mind- 
wearied,  early  or  late,  some  hour  of  the  day  she 
would  surely  find,  in  which,  with  practised  hand  and 
loving  gesture  to  wreath  its  wavy  masses,  one  day  in 
one  fashion,  the  next  in  some  other,  till  one  might 
have  thought  variety  itself  was  exhausted. 

'  Mamma,'  said  Caroline,  looking  up  with  a  smile, 
and  an  expression  of  countenance  that  seemed  a  laugh- 
ing contradiction  to  her  words, '  Mamma,  do  you  know 
I  am  very  vain  of  my  hair  ! ' 

'  Not  vain,  my  love,  I  am  sure,'  said  Mrs.  Hargrave, 
shaping  as  she  spoke,  a  massive  plait  like  a  coronet 
for  the  young  head  that  leaned  upon  her  knee.  '  Not 
vain,  I  am  sure,  though  of  course  you  know  it  is  beau- 
tiful.' 

'  Dear  mamma  !  cannot  you  tell  what  I  mean  ? '  ex- 
claimed Caroline, '  that  1  must  have  been  deaf  or  blind 
last  night,  not  to  discover  how  beautifully  you  had  dress- 
ed it.  Really,  I  felt  what  lady  Fitzroy  said  was  quite 
true,  that  no  lady's  in  the  room  looked  so  well  as  mine. 


A  STORY  OF  WATS  AND  MEANS.      '  271 

And  I  thought  how  kind  and  how  clever  my  dear 
mamma  was,  and  how  much  I  wished  she  had  been 
there  to  hear  her  tasteful  work  admired.'  And  Caro- 
line kissed  the  hand  that  was  conveniently  near  her 
lips. 

*  Ah,  I  have  been  so  busy  all  the  morning,  that  you 
have  not  told  me  half  the  particulars  of  the  ball  yet 
— your  first  ball,  too.  Did  you  really  enjoy  it,  my 
darling  ? ' 

'  Oh  yes,  —  was  it  not  kind  of  Miss  Graham  to  invito 
me?' 

Now  Miss  Graham  was  what  might  be  called  a 
young  old  maid,  rich  and  generous,  good  and  clever, 
and  handsome  enough  to  make  a  very  handsome 
portrait,  for  the  which  she  had  recently  sat  to  Mr. 
Hargrave.  The  painter  despised  with  most  supreme 
contempt  that  branch  of  his  art,  by  which  alone  a 
twenty  pound  note  was  likely  to  find  its  way  into  his 
house  ;  and  had  he  suspected  that  his  sitter  really  cared 
very  little  whether  the  portrait  were  a  likeness  or  not, 
and  merely  thus  employed  him,  as  a  delicate  man- 
ner of  benefitting  his  wife  and  daughter,  it  is  probable 
contempt  and  indignation  would  have  prevented  him 
undertaking  the  commission.  Yet  such  was  the  truth, 
and  when  to  this  trait  of  her  character  is  added  the  fact 
that  a  week  before  the  ball,  she  sent  Caroline  a  quan- 
tity of  India  muslin,  with  the  prettiest  of  notes,  beg- 
ging her  acceptance  of  the  same,  saying,  that  she  had 
received  a  present  of  several  pieces  from  a  cousin  in 
the  east,  (so  she  had  seven  years  ago,)  and  leaving  her 
to  suppose  this  was  one  of  them,  though  really  pur- 
chased that  morning  at  Howell's  —  when  this  second 


272  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

trait  of  character  is  perceived,  and  understood,  the  dis- 
criminating reader  will  be  intimately  acquainted  with 
the  shrewd,  generous,  rather  eccentric,  but  very  high- 
hearted Emily  Graham. 

*Tell  me,'  continued  Mrs.  Hargrave,  recalling  to 
her  mind,  as  it  were  a  picture,  the  figure  of  her  young 
daughter  as  she  had  appeared  the  night  before  in  her 
filmy,  floating  muslin  robe,  and  her  rich  dark  hair, 
without  on  either  the  addition  or  adornment  of  a  gem 
or  a  flower, '  tell  me,'  she  continued,  '  did  you  dance 
much,  and  who  was  it  that  found  you  partners  ? ' 

'  Miss  Graham  herself,'  said  Caroline, '  and  not  only 
did  she  introduce  me  to  partners,  but  to  several  ladies 
who  were  there,  calling  me  her  "  young  friend  ; " 
was  not  this  kind  and  considerate  ?  And  do  you  know, 
I  liked  better  to  talk  to  them  than  to  the  strange  gen- 
tlemen ?  The  latter  asked  me  about  operas,  and 
theatres,  and  books  I  had  never  read,  and  I  could  only 
say,  "I  don't  know"  to  all  that  was  said.  And  then 
I  felt  confused,  and  that  made  me  seem  sillier  than 
ever.' 

'  But  the  ladies,'  said  Mrs.  Hargrave,  with  a  smile, 
'  praised  your  hair,  and  so  you  felt  at  home  in  the  dis- 
course, —  was  that  it,  Caroline  ? ' 

'  Dear  mamma,  can  you  think  me  so  foolish  ?  The 
ladies  talked  to  me  about  many  things,  and  when  I 
seemed  ignorant,  enlightened  me.  I  did  not  feel  con- 
fused at  all  with  them,  and  I  can  hardly  tell  how  it 
came  about  that  Lady  Fitzroy  admired  my  hair,  and 
called  her  daughter  to  observe  its  arrangement,  recom- 
mending her  to  describe  the  style  to  her  French  maid 
Annette.' 


A  STORY  OF  WAYS  AND  MEANS.        273 

'  Then  I  suppose  we  shall  have  the  honor  of  estab- 
lishing a  fashion,  my  child.' 

'  I  do  not  think  so,'  replied  Caroline, '  for  the  young 
lady  shook  her  head,  and  said, '  that  if  her  maid  could 
dress  hair  with  half  the  simple  grace  that  mine  dis» 
played,  she  might  soon  make  a  fortune  at  no  other 
employment.' 

Mrs.  Hargrave  was  twining  the  last  loose  tress  round 
her  fingers  while  Caroline  spoke,  and  the  daughter 
did  not  remark  that  she  paused  a  moment  dropping 
her  hands  for  that  instant  on  the  young  girl's  shoulder. 
Then  quickly  completing  her  self-appointed  task,  the 
mother  stooped  to  kiss  the  smooth  fair  brow  before 
her,  and  dismissed  her  child  with  one  of  those  fond 
words  which  are  the  sweetest  music  loving  lips  can 
utter,  when,  tuned  by  one  heart's  key-note,  they  reach 
another  no  less  warm. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  scene  is  again  the  parlor  in  the  '  quiet  street ;' 
but  three  years  have  passed,  and  busy  as  old  Time 
must  have  been  about  more  important  matters,  he  had 
condescended  to  leave  there  agreeable  evidence  of  his 
passage.  The  room  was  no  longer  dim  and  dull ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  wore  a  decided  air  of  substantial  com- 
fort. Instead  of  worn  and  faded  chintz,  thick  curtains 
of  a  plain  but  serviceable  manufacture,  kept  out  the 
wintry  air  :  a  warm  carpet  felt  soft  to  the  feet ;  an 
eeisy  chair  stretched  out  its  inviting  arms  on  one  side 
18 


274  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

of  the  fire,  whilst  on  the  other  a  comfortable  couch 
extended  its  length.  Nor  was  the  room  without  an 
ornament.  Opposite  to  the  chimney-glass,  and  reflected 
therein  so  that  the  picture  seemed  always  present,  was  a 
beautiful  portrait  of  Caroline  Hargrave  —  in  truth,  one 
of  her  father's  most  successful  productions.  Represent- 
ing her  simply  attired  in  white,  it  recalled  precisely 
her  appearance  on  the  eventful  night  of  her  first  ball ; 
and  at  the  moment  of  which  we  are  speaking  the 
original  w£is  not  by,  to  invite  comparisons. 

Mrs.  Hargrave  was  seated  on  the  couch,  and  beside 
her  was  a  gentleman,  a  young  man  of  three  or  four 
and  twenty,  who  though  deeply  interested  in  the  conver- 
sation which  was  going  on,  and  looking  withal  remark- 
ably happy,  yet  raised  his  eyes  every  now  and  then 
either  to  the  portrait  or  its  reflection,  as  if  it  were  the 
presiding  deity  of  the  place.  Although  three  years 
had  passed,  so  far  from  the  lady  looking  older,  the 
case  was  absolutely  the  reverse ;  a  truth  which  was 
the  more  apparent  from  the  circumstance  of  her  being 
much  better  dressed  than  before,  wearing  on  this  occa- 
sion a  quiet  and  matronly  dress  of  dark  satin.  Her 
habitual  expression  now  was  one  of  repose  and  con- 
tentment, but  at  this  moment  it  was  lighted  by  a  visible 
half-tearful  gladness,  and  yet  ruffled  by  some  feeling 
that  partook  of  anxiety. 

'  Why  will  you,'  exclaimed  Wilton  Bromley,  for  we 
will  take  up  their  discourse  at  the  minute  when  Asmo- 
deous-like,  we  look  in,  '  why  will  you,  my  dear  lady, 
revert  to  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  the  inequality  of 
our  stalion .''  I  will  admit  it  only  to  be  inequality  of 
fortune ;  and  I  am  so  eccentric  as  to  think  this  an  in- 


A  STORY  OF  WAYS  AND  MEANS.        275 

equality  which  renders  us  peculiarly  well  suited  to  each 
other.  Dearly  as  I  love  Caroline,  were  I  penniless  it 
would  be  a  sorry  subject  to  speak  of  our  marriage  — 
and  were  she  rich,  I  should  distrust  the  power  of  my 
moderate  income  —  should  feel  there  were  something 
wrong  in  our  relative  positions  —  should  despair  of 
ever  knowing  the  exquisite  sensation,  the  thought,  that 
even  in  the  most  worldly  sense,  and  in  reference  to 
mere  material  comforts,  her  future  lot  promises  to  be 
brighter  and  easier  than  her  past.' 

Mrs.  Hargrave  pressed  his  hand,  and  said  with  emo- 
tion, '  You  are  all  that  is  good  and  generous.' 

*  And  what  can  be  really  a  richer  inheritance,'  the 
young  man  continued, '  than  health,  talent  and  beauty  ? 
If  an  artist  be  fit  companion  for  our  nobles,  surely  his 
daughter  may  mate  with  a  simple  gentleman.' 

'  A  really  great  artist ! '  murmured  Mrs.  Hargrave, 
as  if  half  ashamed  of  the  insinuation  her  words  con- 
veyed, and  yet  determined  to  speak  the  truth. 

*  I  am  no  connoisseur,'  said  Wilton,  '  nor  is  this  the 
time  to  discuss  Mr.  Hargrave's  talents.  If,'  he  added 
with  a  smile,  '  I  do  not  always  award  him  the  pinnacle 
he  assumes  for  himself,  I  cannot  deny  him  very  great 
talents ;  and  even  by  the  vulgar  and  often  false  measure 
of  success  he  may  be  tried,  since  his  Art  has  provided 
honorable  and  comfortable  sustenance  for  his  family, 
and  has  educated  a  daughter  to  be  the  paragon  I  think 
her.' 

'  Suppose  he  has  not  done  this  ? '  said  Mrs.  Har- 
grave, looking  down  and  playing  with  the  fringe  of  her 
apron. 

'  How ! '    returned  Wilton,  '  then  he  has  a  private 


276  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

fortune,  which  for  his  sake,  but  for  that  alone,  I  rejoice 
to  learn.' 

'  Not  so.  Is  it  possible  Miss  Graham  has  never 
hinted  at  a  means  of  income  not  apparent  to  the  world 
in  general  ? ' 

'  Now  you  mention  it,  she  once  hinted  at  some 
secret,  calling  it  a  gold  mine,  and  speaking  in  as 
mysterious  a  manner  as  if  she  were  setting  me  an 
enigma  to  guess.  Having  no  talent  for  that  sort  of 
thing  it  passed  from  my  mind,  but  now  that  you  recall 
the  circumstance,  I  do  recollect  that  she  clearly  in- 
timated that  it  was  something  which  resounded  to  your 
honor,  and  that  if  when  I  discovered  the  fact  I  should 
not  think  so,  I  should  deserve  to  lose  Caroline,  whom 
she  would  immediately  endeavor  to  console,  and  pro- 
vide with  a  worthier  lover.' 

*  Noble-hearted  woman  ! ' 

'Yes,  noble-hearted,  and  right-minded  is  she,'  re- 
turned Wilton  Bromley ;  '  and  of  this  I  am  sure,  that 
whatever  she  approved  must  have  been  noble  and 
right ;  wise  too  and  prudent,  it  is  very  likely,  in  that 
lower  sense  of  wisdom  and  prudence  to  which  the 
greatest  wisdom  is  not  of  necessity  allied  ;  for  Miss 
Graham's  enthusiasm  is  always  joined  to  the  practical 
genius  of  common  sense.  So,  dear  lady,  either  gratify 
the  curiosity  you  have  piqued,  or  leave  the  riddle  still 
unsolved,  if  so  it  please  you.' 

'  My  heart  allows  me  no  choice ;  for  a  mean  decep- 
tion, carefully  planned,  seems  to  me  but  the  ill-favored 
twin  of  a  bold  falsehood.  Not  that  there  is  pain  in 
telling  you  the  truth; — the  trial  was  to  tell  my  hus- 
band.' 


A  STORY  OF  WAYS  AND  MEANS.       277 

'  A  mystery  to  him,  too  —  wonder  on  wonder!' 
'  For  a  time  even  to  him ;  but  listen,  and  I  will  sketch 
the  history  of  my  married  life  in  a  few  sentences.  I 
married  early,  with  but  a  small  fortune,  besides  the 
riches  of  hope  and  youth.  We  loved  each  other,  at 
least  my  husband  loved  —  still  loves  —  me  as  well  as 
a  vain  man  and  an  egotist  is  capable  of  loving.  But 
I  saw  not  his  faults  then,  and  bitter — bitter  indeed 
was  the  knowledge  of  them  when  it  came.  Taking 
his  dreams  of  fame  and  fortune  for  solid  expecta- 
tions, I  saw  my  little  property  consumed  without  much 
anxiety  ;  nor  did  I  know  for  long  how  much  it  was 
really  diminished. 

'  Suddenly  the  blow  fell  ;  three  years  after  our  mar- 
riage, and  when  Caroline  was  an  infant  in  my  arms,  I 
learned  that  we  were  penniless.  I  do  not  believe  it 
possible  that  they  who  have  never  known  poverty  can 
be  made  to  understand  what  the  Struggle  of  Life  really 
is — forgive  me  if  I  say  this  even  to  you;'  and  she 
pressed  Wilton  Bromley's  hand  as  she  spoke,  '  if  they 
could  be  taught  this  knowledge  it  would  be,  I  think, 
the  most  beneficial  revelation  the  human  race  could 
leceive.  The  cares  which  depress  till  they  degrade, 
the  necessity  of  money-seeking,  until  the  jaundiced 
eye  sees  even  earth's  noblest  things  by  its  own  false 
medium  ;  the  withering  of  the  heart's  best  qualities  for 
want  of  the  power  of  exercising  them  ;  the  writhing 
under  petty  obligations,  writhing  because  they  are  so 
gracelessly  conferred  nine  times  out  of  ten ;  the  serf- 
dom of  thd  very  soul  whose  thoughts  even  are  not 
free.' 


278  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

'  Believe  me,  I  can  realize  all  this,'  said  Wilton,  with 
much  feeling. 

'  You  think  you  can,  as  a  thousand  other  generous 
natures  have  said  and  thought :  but  I  tell  you  there  is 
a  new  sense  comes  to  us  with  this  sort  of  suffering,  but 
a  sense  that  vibrates  only  to  its  own  agony.  The  rich 
may  comprehend  the  condition  of  the  helpless,  abject 
poor,  the  utterly  destitute,  but  of  the  yet  deeper  trials 
of  the  struggling  they  know  but  little  more  than  can 
a  blind  man  know  of  sight,  even  by  the  most  vivid 
description,  and  with  the  strongest  human  sympathy.* 

'  This  life  of  suffering  was  mine,'  she  continued,  ' 
when  tears  had  relieved  the  bitterness  of  her  recollec- 
tions, '  for  years,  many  years ;  mine,  I  say,  rather  than 
ours,  for,  wrapped  in  his  own  dreams,  Mr.  Hargrave 
scarcely  shared  them.  But  amid  all  I  had  one  joy,  my 
only  child,  my  Caroline.  It  was  my  aim  to  keep  her 
heart  uncorroded  by  worldly  cares,  and  the  bitterness 
of  poverty  ;  I  did  this,  and  in  the  very  doing  my  own 
soul  escaped  at  intervals  from  its  corruption.  In  one 
respect  my  husband's  abstraction  and  isolation  worked 
well.  I  took  care  that  discourses  about  money,  about 
poverty,  should  not  meet  her  ear.  Until  the  age  of 
sixteen  I  educated  her  myself,  for  I  was  able,  with  the 
help  of  books,  to  do  this  ;  although  when  I  attempted 
to  make  my  poor  acquirements  serviceable  as  a  daily 
teacher,  I  found  younger  and  abler  instructors  very 
naturally  preferred.  Perhaps  my  mother's  love  quick- 
ened my  abilities  ;  at  all  events  thus  it  was.  At  sixteen 
Caroline  went  to  her  first  ball  —  you  remember  the 
night }  ' 

'  How  well !     Never  has  her  image  been  entirely 


A  STORT  OF  WAYS  AND  MEANS.       279 

driven  from  my  heart  from  that  hour ;  though  for  a 
while  absence  and  travel  might  have  weakened  the 
impression.  It  was  long  before  I  recognised  the  real 
nature  of  my  feelings,  but  I  now  know  that  in  that 
girlish  grace  —  see,  Mamma!  it  is  beaming  dov^n  upon 
us  now  ' — and  he  pointed  to  the  picture  — '  and  almost 
childish  simplicity,  I  met  my  destiny.  What  a  beau- 
tiful portrait  it  is.  Her  father  has  caught  just  the 
expression  she  wore  ;  too  innocent  of  evil  to  be  fright- 
ened, too  pure  and  graceful  to  be  gauche,  her  natural 
timidity  had  a  fascination  about  it  beyond  all  words  to 
describe.  I  remember  comparing  her  to  a  white  dove 
whose  wings  had  strayed  among  the  peacocks  of  an 
aviary  ;  and  then  her  beautiful  hair !  oh,  I  had  no 
comparison  for  that.' 

'  You  thought  it  beautifully  dressed,'  said  Mrs.  Har- 
grave,  with  a  tearful  smile. 

'  I  don't  know  how  it  was  dressed,'  said  Wilton, 
adding  with  the  most  charming  ignorance  of  the  mys- 
teries of  the  toilet,  '  it  did  not  seem  arranged  at  all  ; 
the  beauty  of  it  was,  it  looked  so  natural  —  as  it  always 
does ! ' 

*  You  know  I  always  dress  Caroline's  hair.'" 

'  Yes,  I  have  heard  her  say  so.  What  is  to  be  done 
when  I  take  her  away  ?  I  must  absolutely  apprentice 
a  maid  to  you,  to  be  instructed  in  the  art.' 

*  I  think  you  had  better ;  the  idea,  I  assure  you,  is 
not  in  the  least  absurd.    I  would  take  her  without  a  fee 

—  that  would  be  the  only  point  not  quite  en  regie.'' 

'  Good  Heavens  !  what  do  you  mean  }     No,  surely 

—  a  light  is  breaking  on  me  !  ' 

'  I  mean  the  admiration  excited  on  the  occasion  you 


280  ENGLISH   TALES   AND   SKETCHES. 

mention  first  gave  me  the  idea  of  turning  my  talent 
for  hair-dressing  to  profitable  account.  A  talent  origi- 
nating in  a  mother's  love  and  pride  —  though  perhaps 
assisted  by  opportunities  and  accidents  likely  enough 
to  surround  an  artist's  wife.  The  naturalness  you 
observed  seems  to  be  the  secret  of  my  success,  and 
the  particular  by  which  I  am  distinguished  from  the 
herd  of  coiffeurs.  A  day  or  two  after  Caroline's  first 
ball,  I  called  on  Miss  Graham,  mentioned  the  idea 
which  had  flashed  upon  my  mind,  received  her  instant 
sympathy  and  approbation  —  and  more  than  this,  her 
introductions  were  the  stepping-stones  to  my  fortune.' 

*  Fortune  I ' 

'  Yes,  fortune ;  at  least,  in  comparison  with  our  former 
poverty  such  it  has  been,  to  make  twenty  guineas  a 
week  in  the  London  season,  besides  receiving  fees 
from  ladies'  maids  and  others  merely  to  be  allowed  to 
look  on,  while  1  operated.  And  out  of  the  season,  I  am 
perpetually  being  sent  for  into  the  country,  and  well 
paid  for  my  time  and  trouble.  These  are  the  "  ways 
and  means "  which  have  paid  my  husband's  debts  ; 
have  surrounded  us  with  every  needful  comfort ;  and 
have  given  Caroline  for  two  years  the  benefit  of  the 
best  masters  in  every  branch  of  her  education.  Wilton 
Bromley  will  not  despise  his  wife's  mother,  for  having 
practised  so  very  humble  a  branch  of  Art.' 

'  He  will  love  and  honor  her  the  more,'  said  Wilton, 
pressing  her  in  his  arms,  '  that  is,  if  further  love  and 
reverence  from  him  be  possible.  No  wonder,  with 
such  a  mother,  Caroline  is  peerless.  But  say,  what  did 
you  mean  by  its  being  "  a  trial,  to  tell  your  husband  " 
this  history,  which  to  me  seems  beautiful } ' 


A  STORY  OF  WAYS  AND  MEANS.       281 

*  He  has  a  different  pride  from  yours.' 

'  And  now  that  the  results  are  so  fortunate  and 
evident  ? '  asked  Bromley. 

'  The  subject  is  never  mentioned  between  us  —  he 
acts  as  if  the  thing  were  not.  But  let  me  ring  now, 
and  send  for  Caroline  —  she  has  longed  for  days  past 
that  I  should  tell  you  the  Great  Secret ! ' 


OUR  PHILOSOPHER'S  DREAM. 


Rain  —  rain  —  rain  !  North,  south,  east,  west,  not 
a  rent  in  the  cloudy  curtain  that  shut  out  the  sunshine ; 
not  a  strip  of  blue  sky  to  let  in  even  a  ray  of  hope  for 
a  change.  The  third  day,  too,  of  this  wet  and  chilly 
weather,  and  we,  a  party  of  Londoners,  invited  to 
enjoy  the  country  !  By  courtesy  it  was  called  sum- 
mer, because  the  month  was  August ;  but  pleasanter, 
say  I,  is  it  to  meet  the  clear  bracing  frost  of  January, 
and  even  its  pelting  snow,  than  your  chilly  summer's 
day,  especially  if  there  be  a  division  in  the  household 
about  the  propriety  of  kindling  a  fire  in  the  general 
sitting-room.  Look,  too,  out  of  doors  ;  how  the  trees 
are  shivering  and  dripping  in  their  rich  foliage  beneath 
the  melting  sky  ;  how  the  flowers  are  bent  down  by 
the  heavy  rain,  and  the  young  buds,  instead  of  opening 
in  beauty  and  fragrance,  trail,  soiled  and  rotting,  on 
the  earth !  Whither  have  the  birds  fled  so  silently  ? 
Not  one  is  to  be  seen  or  heard.  Flap,  flap  —  that  is 
the  laburnum  branch  against  the  drawing-room  window 
—  for  the  wind  is  high,  driving  the  rain  as  if  in  sheets 
of  water.  That  heavy  branch  ought  to  have  been  cut 
or  trained  ;  yet  it  made  a  pleasant  shade  in  the  sultry 
weather  last  week ! 


OUR  philosopher's  dream.  283 

We  were  a  party  of  nearly  a  dozen,  and  no  doubt 
each  person  considered  him  or  herself  as  a  reasonably 
good-tempered  and  agreeable  individual ;  and  certainly 
there  could  be  no  difference  of  opinion  about  the  many 
admirable  qualities,  including  agreeability  and  good 
temper,  of  our  kind  host  and  hostess,  and  yet  the 
continued  wet  weather,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  tried 
everybody.  In  the  first  place,  the  house  was  one 
taken  by  our  host  for  a  short  period  before  commenc- 
ing a  tour,  while  repairs  went  on  in  his  own  commo- 
dious residence ;  and  surely  '  a  furnished  house '  is 
a  generic  term,  expressive  of  great  discomfort.  No 
library  was  found  among  the  furniture,  or  necessary 
articles  provided  ;  not  a  book  was  there  in  the  house, 
except  a  few  stray  volumes  which  had  crept  into  the 
ladies'  packages,  or  secreted  themselves  in  the  gen- 
tlemen's carpet-bags  ;  and  these  with  the  omnivorous 
appetite  produced  by  the  weather,  were,  I  believe, 
mentally  devoured  before  the  end  of  the  first  pouring 
day.  Not  a  musical  instrument  in  the  rooms,  save  a 
shrill  five-octave  piano,  which,  from  its  tottering  legs 
to  its  partial  speechlessness,  betrayed  all  the  infirmities 
of  age  ;  an  accordion,  which  somebody  had  brought, 
but  nobody  could  play  (otherwise  than  asthmatically) ; 
and  a  flute,  on  which  a  young  gentleman  thought  he 
could  discourse  eloquent  music,  and  with  which  he  had 
provided  himself,  possibly  with  the  hope  of  charming 
some  of  the  neighboring  dryads  and  naiads  during  a 
projected  boating  and  picnic  excursion.  But  as  we 
had  '  too  much  of  water'  around  us,  to  admit  of  our 
floating  gaily  upon  it,  our  flute-player  was  obliged  to 
content  himself  with  mere  mortal  listeners,  for  whosQ 


284  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

solace   he   rung   the    changes   on    '  Isle    of   Beauty,' 

*  A  Bumper  of  Burgundy,'  and  '  Rousseau's  Dream,' 
kindly  volunteering,  in  the  desperation  of  our  ennui, 

*  a  few  bars '  from  pieces  which  '  he  could  not  per- 
fectly recollect  without  the  notes.'  Honor  be  to  his 
good-nature,  if  not  to  his  flute-playing! — the  first 
professor  could  only  have  done  his  best  for  our  amuse- 
ment. 

In  the  desperation  of  our  circumstances,  some  of 
us  took  to  letter-writing  ;  but  our  epistles  were  such 
lugubrious  affairs,  breathing  little  else  than  discontent, 
that  they  were  worthier  the  flames  than  the  care  of 
the  general  post-master.  Not  having  exhausted  our 
complaints  by  writing  them,  we  began  talking  of  our 
grievances,  and  grew,  as  people  always  do  in  such 
discourse,  wonderfully  confidential.  It  would  seem 
that  we  had  all  suffered  more  or  less  from  '  the  stings 
and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune,'  or  from  '  the  spurns 
that  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes  ; '  verily,  we 
must  have  been  an  unfortunate  or  an  ill-used  set.  All 
but  Uncle  Robert  —  our  hostess's  and  everybody's 
Uncle  Robert,  otherwise  called  Our  Philosopher  — 
who,  though  not  a  great  talker,  was  still  less  of  a 
grumbler;  and  did  often  enliven  us  with  a  pleasant 
anecdote  or  shrewd  remark,  very  much  to  the  purpose 
of  whatever  our  discourse  might  be.  Yet  he  who  was 
no  grumbler  was  the  oldest  of  our  party,  and  one 
whose  life  had,  truth  to  tell,  been  deeply  shadowed. 
He  had  lost  a  princely  fortune  by  the  wrong-headed- 
ness  of  a  speculating  partner ;  death  had  deprived  him 
of  a  beloved  wife  ;  and  worldly  prudence  had  driven 
from  his  side  three  noble-hearted  sons,  the  only  sur- 


OUR  philosopher's  dream.  285 

vivors  of  a  large  family.     '  Perhaps,'  asks  some  one, 

*  this  Uncle  Robert  had  lukewarm  feelings,  and  did  not 
really  suffer  from  these  severe  trials  ? '  Nay,  if  you 
had  marked  his  quivering  lip  and  glistening  eye  when 
news  came  from  the  pestilential  shores  of  Africa,  or 
a  gazette  from  the  burning  East,  or  a  letter  from  un- 
settled and  unpoised  Australia,  you  would  not  have 
doubted  the  warmth  of  his  parental  love,  nor  the 
acuteness  of  his  feelings. 

He  was  sitting,  book  in  hand  ;  but  though  his  eyes 
were  bent  down,  their  adjunct,  a  pair  of  spectacles, 
was  thrown  up,  resting  upon  his  broad  forehead,  in- 
stead of  upon  that  feature  which,  in  the  old  fable,  was 
so  consequential  about  claiming  the  right  to  the  same. 

'What  are  you  reading,  Uncle  Robert?'  said  our 
hostess  with  a  smile. 

'  I  am  not  reading,  my  dear  niece,'  he  replied  ;  '  I 
have  been  dreaming  all  the  morning.' 

'  Dreaming !  Why,  you  have  not  been  asleep 
surely,  and  we  chattering  all  the  time  ? '  she  con- 
tinued, taking  the  book  from  his  hand  in  a  playful 
manner. 

'  Indeed  I  have  not.  But  do  you  suppose  it  is  only 
the  young  who  are  allowed  to  have  waking  dreams  7 
We  old  people  fashion  them,  no  doubt,  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent manner.  There  is  nothing  Arcadian  or  Utopian 
about  them,  I  grant;  they  are  made  up  of  the  recol- 
lection of  facts  rather  than  of  the  pencillings  of  fancy, 
and  yet  perhaps  they  are  almost  as  airy  as  the  beautiful 

*  baseless  fabrics '  the  young  so  delight  to  build.  Shall 
I  tell  my  morning's  dream  for  the  edification  of  you 
discontented  mortals.? ' 


286  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

'  Oh  do,  pray  do,'  was  echoed  through  the  circle ; 
and  we  drew  round  to  form  an  attentive  audience. 

'  I  shall  not  stay  to  inquire,'  began  Our  Philosopher, 
'  if  there  be  a  young  gentleman  of  our  party  who  thinks 
himself  a  remarkably  unfortunate  and  ill-used  person, 
because  his  relations  have  thought  proper  to  find  for 
him  a  government  situation,  with  a  regularly  increasing 
salary  sufficient  to  supply  every  reasonable  want,  in- 
stead of  advancing  for  his  use  a  certain  amount  of 
capital,  from  the  nucleus  of  which  he  is  morally  certain 
he  should  have  become  a  second  Rothschild.' 

Here  our  flute-player  looked  up  with  a  flushed 
cheek,  for  the  cap  fitted  him,  indeed  more  tightly 
than  was  pleasant ;  but  he  had  the  good  feeling  to 
know  that  youth  cannot  be  offended  by  the  kindly 
rebuke  of  age,  and  he  caught  Uncle  Robert's  eye  with 
a  good-humored  smile,  as  our  monitor  continued. 

'  Nor  is  this  all.  He  entertains  an  extraordinary 
delusion  that  he  has  an  especial  talent  for  money- 
making,  whereas  he  has  only  elegant  tastes  which 
would  direct  the  money-spending.  He  has  a  decided 
contempt  for  money  itself,  apart  from  its  noble  pur- 
poses of  benevolence,  and  encouragement  to  industry 
of  head  and  hand ;  and  for  this  I  am  one  to  honor 
him.  But  I  shrewdly  suspect  your  thorough  money- 
maker is  too  often  made  of  different  stuff",  and  feels 
some  idolatry  towards  the  yellow  god  itself.  Remem- 
ber I  say  too  often,  not  always ;  for  some  of  our 
merchant  princes  spend  their  revenues  in  a  truly  noble 
manner.  The  delusion  of  our  discontented  one  is, 
moreover,  very  curious.  He  scorns  the  patient  labor 
and  unremitting  toil,  and  all  the  very  arts  which  yet 


OUR  philosopher's  dream.  287 

he  thinks  he  should  so  successfully  practise  ;  and  there 
are  about  half-a-dozen  individuals  in  the  metropolis 
whom  he  only  knows  by  name,  who  are  yet  the  objects 
of  his  supreme  envy.  Now,  in  my  waking  dream,  I 
thought  that  the  mind  of  one  of  these  persons  and 
his  own  were  revealed  to  each  other,  and  held  a 
sort  of  spiritual  communion  —  a  spiritual  communion, 
although  a  bodily  meeting,  as  if  they  were  under  a 
bond  to  exchange  the  deepest  secrets  of  their  hearts. 
This  meeting,  by  the  way,  was  in  a  dark,  dingy,  dusty 
counting-house,  instead  of  at  the  superb  villa  at  which 
the  discontented  one  had  pictured  the  wealthy  mer- 
chant enjoying  every  appurtenance  to  refined  intel* 
lectual  enjoyment  and  bodily  comfort.  The  visitor 
seated  himself  on  a  hard,  tall,  uneasy  leathern  stool, 
while  the  merchant  spoke  to  him  from  his  accustomed 
niche,  where  he  sat  before  a  high  desk,  which  was 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  apartment  by  a  light 
railing.  He  leaned  his  elbow  on  a  closed  cheque-book, 
and  looked  at  the  youth  with  a  grave,  nay,  a  sad  ex- 
pression of  countenance. 

'  You  are  thinking,'  said  the  Spirit  of  the  merchant, 
•  that  the  height  of  human  bliss  would  be  to  have  the 
power  of  converting  these  leaves  of  paper,  by  a  few 
strokes  of  the  pen,  to  the  value  of  thousands  of  pounds  ; 
you  are  dreaming  of  doubling  and  tripling  them  by 
successful  speculations.' 

'  And  also,'  said  the  Spirit  of  the  youth  involun- 
tarily, '  of  spending  some  of  the  money  on  a  visit  to 
Italy  —  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Eternal  City.  Oh,'  he 
continued  with  a  sigh,  '  in  my  unhappy  condition,  I 
cannot  hope,  for  years  to  come,  to  spare  either  money 


288  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

or  time  for  this  realization  of  my  youth's  fondest 
wish.' 

'  I  know  all  the  thoughts  of  your  mind,'  pursued  the 
Spirit  of  the  merchant ;  '  and  though  I  am  dead  to  all 
such  aspirations,  I  remember  them  well  enough  to  envy 
you  your  fresh  unbroken  spirits,  your  calm  unfevered 
life,  and  regular  hours  of  relaxation.' 

'  But  you  have  wealth,'  returned- the  youth  ;  '  why 
not  retire  from  the  turmoil  which  I  now  perceive  has 
rendered  your  hair  grey  before  its  time,  has  wrinkled 
your  brow  prematurely,  and  withered  up  the  spiritual 
aspirations  which,  twenty  years  ago,  resembled  my 
own  } ' 

'  Examine  my  heart  more  narrowly,'  said  the  mer- 
chant's Spirit  in  rather  an  angry  tone,  '  and  you  will 
cease  to  talk  so  like  a  fool.  Don't  you  perceive  I  am 
one  of  the  so-called  rich,  whose  wealth  is  credit.''  If 
I  cease  for  a  day  to  plan  and  bargain,  the  machinery 
stops,  and  all  is  lost.  I  can  scrawl  here  five  figures  in 
a  row,  and  the  draft  will  be  honored.  What  then  }  I 
can  only,  as  it  were,  pass  the  money  from  one  pocket 
to  another  —  embark  it  in  some  other  speculation.  For 
my  family's  use,  or  my  own  private  pleasure,  it  is  often 
excessively  inconvenient  to  write  one  and  two  ciphers 
after  it.' 

'I  perceive,  however,'  continued  the  youth,  'that 
you  have  a  wife  and  family  —  the  objects  with  me  of 
a  romantic  ambition  ;  indeed  I  think  you  married  when 
little  older  than  I  am  now.' 

'  Take  off  another  layer  of  appearances,'  answered 
the  merchant's  Spirit,  '  and  you  will  discover  that  I 
married  an  extravagant  woman,  solely  for  the  small 


OXTR   philosopher's    DREAM.  289 

fortune  she  possessed,  with  which  I  began  the  world. 
In  our  frequent  quarrels,  she  always  tauntingly  reminds 
me  that  everything  is  hers  ;  and  really  my  splendid 
mansion  is  so  associated  in  my  mind  with  discomfort 
and  contention,  that  I  feel  far  more  at  home  on 
"  Change,"  or  in  this  dingy  counting-house,  than  any- 
where else.  I  bear  with  your  folly,'  continued  the 
merchant,  '  because  you  remind  me  of  a  dear  son, 
for  whom  I  am  struggling  and  striving  to  carve  out  a 
happier  fate  than  my  own  has  been.' 

'  But,'  said  the  Spirit  of  the  youth,  '  it  is  not  because 
you  have  secret  cares  that  the  wealth  of  every  mer- 
chant is  but  credit,  and  that  every  one  of  them  has  an 
unloving  wife.' 

'  Certainly  not ;  and  though  I  feel  a  degree  of  envy 
for  such  as  you,  with  youth,  health,  and,  in  human 
.probability,  a  calm  life  before  them,  with  sufficient 
leisure  and  freedom  from  heavy  care,  with  the  privi- 
lege of  choosing  a  partner  for  life,  I  have  often 
caught  myself  envying  my  seemingly  more  fortunate 
companions  in  business.  Yet  who  knows,  if  our  spirits 
could  hold  this  intimate  communion  with  theirs,  we 
might  discover  they,  too,  had  sorrows.' 

There  was  a  pause.  '  Ah,'  said  the  merchant  at 
last,  '  I  see  you  are  growing  more  contented  whh  your 
lot ;  and  as  this  makes  me  envy  you  more,  1  had 
rather  not  examine  your  mind  any  further  ;  especially 
as  it  is  very  necessary  I  should  seem  unruffled,  alike 
to  hide  satisfaction  at  my  gains,  and  chagrin  at  my 
losses.'  'And  thus,'  said  Uncle  Robert,  speaking  in 
his  own  person, '  the  first  scene  of  my  waking  dream 
19 


290  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

melted  away  —  gradually  discovering  —  shall  I  tell  U 
you  ? — a  second.' 

'  Oh  yes,'  was  echoed  by  all,  though  perhaps  we 
each  trembled  with  the  thought  of  being  the  next 
exemplar. 

'  In  the  second  scene  of  my  waking  dream,'  con- 
tinued Uncle  Robert,  looking,  as  he  spoke,  at  the 
youngest  of  our  party, '  I  beheld  a  bright-eyed  girl,  of 
about,  I  suppose,  seventeen,  without  a  real  trouble  or 
sorrow  in  the  world  —  unless,  indeed,  the  loss  of  her 
mother,  when  she  was  an  infant,  may  still  be  called 
so — who  fancied  herself  cruelly  used,  because  her 
stepmother  still  exercised  parental  authority  over  her  ; 
apportioning  the  occupation  of  her  time,  directing  her 
reading,  and  even  the  choice  of  her  companions.  She 
fancies  she  could  have  submitted  to  even  a  harsher 
government  from  her  own  mother,  but  feels  sure  she 
would  not  have  exercised  her  power  half  so  tyranni- 
cally. Her  regret  for  her  parent,  and  affection  for  this 
ideal  of  a  mother,  we  all  can  understand  and  admire ; 
but  just  now  the  especial  objects  of  her  envy  are  a 
family  of  giddy  girls,  who,  like  herself,  are  mother- 
less, but  who,  unlike  her,  have  escaped  from  control, 
salutary  or  not.  It  is  true  that  she  does  not- think,  if 
she  had  equal  liberty,  she  should  abuse  it  by  idling 
her  time  in  the  manner  she  confesses  they  do  ;  but  she 
longs  for  the  liberty,  nevertheless,  if  only  to  prove  her 
wisdom.  Now,  in  my  dream,  the  Spirit  of  this  young 
girl,  was  wafted  away  from  the  well-ordered  home, 
which  she  sometimes  calls  a  prison  ;  away  from  the 
neat  chamber,  well  stocked  with  books,  which  she  calls 
her  own  ;  away  from  her   birds  and  flowers  —  to  a 


OUR  philosopher's  dream.  291 

poverty-stricken  dwelling  in  the  heart  of  a  great  cit5^ 
The  poverty  was  of  that  sort  which  is  the  most  painful 
to  witness,  not  the  humble,  almost  contented,  poverty 
which  strives  to  limit  wants  and  wishes  to  the  means;, 
but  the  poverty  which  is  proud,  and  ashamed  of  itself. 

'A  haggard  woman,  really  about  five-and-twerrty,  but 
looking  middle-aged,  was  there ;  and  two  sickly  chil- 
dren, one  in  her  arms,  one  clinging  to  her  dress. 
Thus  spoke  the  Spirit  of  the  woman  to  the  young  girl 
—  for,  in  my  dream,  they  were  able  to  read  each 
other's  hearts. 

"  You  envy  those  whose  days  are  passing  away, 
to  my  mind,  like  an  early  scene,  from  the  drama  of 
my  own  life.  I,  too,  was  motherless  from  an  infant, 
but  my  father  gave  me  no  stepdame  ;  he  consoled  him- 
self in  a  very  different  fashion  —  was  seldom  in  his 
house  —  made  no  liome  of  it.  I  was  left  to  servants 
and  hireling  teachers,  all  chosen  carelessly.  I  was  my 
own  mistress,  indeed,  and  steered  my  course  to  —  a 
whirlpool.  Ignorance,  Vanity,  and  Self-will,  were  my 
pilots,  without  a  warning  voice  to  tell  me  of  a  beacon. 
My  father  was  reputed  rich,  and  I  had  many  suitors ; 
but  I,  who  had  never  been  controlled,  and  so  had  never 
learned  to  control  myself,  would  not  be  guided  in  ray 
choice,  would  not  give  up  my  will.  I  was  just  your 
age  when  I  eloped  with  one,  worthy  perhaps  of  me-, 
but  quite  unworthy  any  nobler  specimen  of  woman- 
hood. I  never  believed  my  father  would  withhold  his 
pardon  and  a  provision  ;  but  when  we  discovered  my 
mistake,  my  wretchedness  began.  My  expected  for- 
tune had  been  the  lure ;  I  was  soon  treated  with  con- 
tempt, and,  by  degrees,  with  all  the   harshness  and 


292  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

cruelty  that  a  brutal  nature  is  capable  of  inflicting  oa 
the  helpless.  My  husband's  bad  character  excludes 
me  from  worthier  associates  than  his  companions  ;  my 
father's  doors  are  shut  against  me  ;  gnawing  poverty 
and  mutual  hatred  rule  our  wretched  household.  I  am 
still  young,  but  I  have  only  hope  in  the  grave.  Read 
my  heart  more  closely  ;  it  is  more  fit  for  you  to  read 
now  than  it  was  in  my  girlhood."  I  thought,'  con- 
tinued Uncle  Robert, '  that  there  was  a  long  pause,  and 
that  the  two  looked  into  each  other's  faces.  At  last 
the  woman  spoke  again. 

"I  can  read,"  said  she,  '■'■your  past  clearly,  and  can 
look  into  your  probable  future.  I  can  see  how,  in  your 
childish  illnesses,  the  stepmother  watched  by  your  bed- 
side, and  pillowed  your  feverish  head  upon  her  bosom; 
how,  in  those  days,  you  loved  her  very  dearly,  and 
knowing  no  difference,  called  her  '  mother.'  I  can 
see,  too,  how  she  loved  you  almost  as  much,  and 
tended  you  quite  as  carefully  as  in  later  days  she  has 
loved  and  tended  her  own  child.  I  can  see,  too,  how  the 
self-willed,  self-governing  cousins,  whom  you  so  much 
envy,  first  corrupted  your  mind  against  her;  and  never 
did  she  more  truly  prove  that  she  was  good,  and  wise, 
and  kind,  than  by  striving  to  keep  you  apart.  1  can  see 
in  the  future  that  she  will  guide  your  half-sister  just  as 
she  has  striven  to  guide  you.  1  see,  too,  in  those  com- 
ing days,  that  you  will  have  a  happy  home  of  your 
own,  in  the  governing  of  which  you  will  often  seek  her 
advice;  for  by  that  time  you  will  understand  her  excel- 
lence, and  thank  her  for  her  care  ;  a  care  which 
almost  precludes  the  possibility  of  your  choosing  an 
unworthy  husband,  since  high  character  is  the  only 


OTJR   philosopher's    DREAM.  293 

passport  to  your  acquaintance.  Oh,"  sighed  the  Spirit, 
"  how  I  envy  your  lot !  How  delicious  does  your  flower- 
strewn  path  appear  ?  How  sweet  the  security  of  your 
present  bondage  to  my  wrung  repentant  heart ! " ' 

The  monitor  paused,  and  the  fair  girl  to  whom  he 
had  rather  particularly  addressed  himself,  rose  with 
tearful  eyes,  and  passing  her  arm  round  Uncle  Rob- 
ert's neck  —  he  was  her  uncle  —  pressed  a  kiss  upon 
his  forehead,  and  whispered,  ere  she  left  the  room,  '  I 
go  to  ask  her  forgiveness  of  all  my  petulance  ;  I  will 
write  to  her  —  again  I  will  call  her  mother.  She  will 
forgive  as  she  has  forgiven,  and  she  shall  feel  that  I 
am  changed  —  am  humbled  —  am  grateful.  And  you, 
Uncle  Robert,  you  shall  think  better  of  me.  Nay,  I 
must  go,'  and  she  hastened  away  to  hide  her  emo- 
tion. 

The  tears  of  the  pretty  little  maiden  had  thrown  a 
gloom  upon  the  party,  and  even  Our  Philosopher  him- 
self seemed  somewhat  affected. 

'  I  know,'  said  a  gentleman  of  the  party,  twisting 
some  closely  written  paper  into  all  imaginable  shapes, 
and  offering  himself  in  a  good-humored  manner  for 
the  amusement  (and  instruction  ?)  of  the  company  — 
'  I  know  there  must  have  been  a  third  scene  to  your 
dream,  for  I  was  the  grumbler-in-chief  this  morning. 
Do  tell  me,  dear  Uncle  Robert,  most  sage  philosopher, 
to  what  Spirit  you  introduced  mine  ? ' 

'  To  the  Spirit  of  the  author,'  returned  our  monitor, 
smiling  again,  '  whose  fame  you,  one  of  the  dilettanti 
of  literature,  and  a  man  of  fortune,  do,  beyond  all  things, 
covet.    The  ode  you  have  written  to  him  really  deserves 


294  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

better  treatment  than  it  is  receiving  at  your  hands ;  for 
though  it  speaks  only  of  the  laurel  wreath,  without 
one  allusion  to  the  poison  which  may  be  distilled  there- 
from, it  is  a  very  respectable  production,  and  would  be  a 
graceful  accompaniment  to  the  pecuniary  present  you 
are  wishing  to  offer  him.  You  know  he  is  poor,  but, 
like  many  of  the  rich,  have  a  very  vague  idea  of  his 
sort  of  poverty  —  a  poverty  very  different  from  that  of 
the  woman  which  I  described,  for  his  fame  really 
shines  the  brighter  that  he  is  still  poor ;  that  he  has 
resisted  every  temptation  to  sell  his  splendid  talents  for 
party  purposes.  Yet,  surrounded  by  the  beloved  ones 
who  look  up  to  him  for  bread  —  bread  to  be  earned  by 
the  sweat  of  the  brain  —  think  how  hard  it  must  have 
been  always  to  have  said  "  No."  On  the  one  hand  ease 
and  abundance,  on  the  other  toil  and  privation.  It  is 
only  lately  this  fame  you  so  covet  has  been  acknowl- 
edged ;  think  of  the  long  struggling  years  of  obscurity 
through  which  he  waded  ;  the  enmity  of  those  he  would 
not  serve ;  the  "  hope  deferred  "  and  sickness  of  heart- 
Could  your  proud  spirit  so  alternately  have  bent  and 
battled  ?  would  you  have  come  as  he  has  done,  to  the 
glorious  belief,  that  "  The  Wages  of  every  noble  Work 
do  yet  lie  in  Heaven,  or  else  Nowhere  ?  "  Verily,  he 
may  be  envied,  but  would  you  live  over  his  life,  and  so 
pay  the  price  of  his  happiness  .-' ' 

'  Such  fame  !  What  can  the  world  bestow  that  is 
comparable  to  it  ?  '  returned  the  author  of  the  ode. 

'  Think  of  your  own  fame,'  interrupted  a  lively  lady, 
and  counting  as  she  spoke  upon  her  fingers  ;  '  first, 
you  wrote  a  prize  essay  at  Oxford,  then  you  contrib- 
uted poetry  to  one  annual  and  to  three  county  news- 


OUR  philosopher's  dream.  395 

papers ;  and  since  then  you  must  have  enriched  at 
least  a  thousand  albums  with  your  effusions.' 

'  To  be  rebuked  at  last  for  my  ambition,'  said  our 
author,  taking  the  irony  in  good  part;  '  well,  one  thing, 
at  least,  I  will  strive  to  be,  the  appreciator  —  the 
encourager  of  genius.  Will  this  please  you,  my  dear 
philosopher  ? ' 

'  Your  hand  upon  the  promise.  And  take  an  old 
man's  word  for  it,  you  will  be  the  thing  more  useful 
than  the  man  of  genius  himself:  for  one  appreciator 
can  encourage  and  foster  many  of  those  who  only  want 
a  helping  hand.' 

And  so  ended  Our  Philosopher's  Dream.  And  be- 
hold, while  it  was  telling,  the  weather  had  cleared,  the 
rain  was  over,  or,  as  I  heard  a  little  girl  say, '  it  was 
used  up.'  Whether  it  was  the  result  of  the  dream  or 
the  sunshine,  I  cannot  tell,  but  certainly  all  our  dis- 
content was  over.  A  walk  in  the  grounds  we  must 
have,  thick  shoes  provided.  How  sweet  the  carnations 
smelt  after  the  rain  !  Even  we  were  in  good  humor 
with  the  snails,  who  crawled  —  no,  galloped  as  they 
always  do  on  such  occasions  —  across  our  path,  though 
we  knew  them  to  be  on  the  high  road  to  assert  their 
prior  claim  to  the  peaches  and  nectarines.  Did  not 
this  alone  prove  the  general  contentedness  of  heart  and 
toleration  of  spirit  induced  by  Uncle  Robert's  dream 
and  —  the  sunshine  } 


THE  NEGLECTED   CHILD 


'  See  what  beautiful  flowers  Mrs.  Woodley  has  given 
us  !'  exclaimed,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  Augusta 
and  Caroline  Shelton,  as  they  entered  their  mother's 
drawing-room  after  a  morning's  walk  ;  '  but  we  wish 
to  give  them  to  you,  mamma,  if  you  will  accept  them,' 
continued  the  children  in  set  phrase,  and  with  an  air  of 
affectation  that  would  have  been  aaything  but  pleasing 
to  a  more  discreet  mother. 

'  My  darlings,'  replied  Mrs.  Shelton,  rising  languidly 
from  the  sofa,  and  drawing  the  children  towards  her; 
*  my  sweet  girls  never  forget  dear  mamma,  do  they  f 
And  what  did  Mrs.  Woodley  say  to  yoi;,  my  dears  .?' 

'She  did  not  say  much,''  returned  Augusta,  a  prim 
womanly  miss  of  fourteen  years  old,  and  the  eldest  of 
the  family  ;  '  but  she  told  us  to  gather  some  flowers  if 
we  liked,  and  asked  us  to  have  a  ride  on  the  pony  ; 
but  of  course  we  did  not  mount,  because  we  thought 
it  might  crease  these  clean  frocks,  and  that  would 
have  displeased  you.  Margaret,  however,  rode  hira 
round  and  round  the  paddock.' 

'  Of  course  ;  she  has  no  thought.' 

♦  But  Margaret  had  not  a  clean  frock  on,  mamma,' 


THE    NEGLECTED    CHILD.  297 

said  Caroline,  who  was  a  degree  more  childlike  than 
the  other,  and  sometimes,  though  not  often,  put  in  a 
kind  word  for  her  neglected  sister. 

'  Never  mind,  my  love ;  you  and  Augusta  shall  go 
out  with  me  this  afternoon ;  that  will  be  much  better 
than  pony-riding.' 

At  this  moment  a  loud  sobbing  was  heard  at  the 
door,  and  the  next  instant  Margaret  Shelton,  the  young- 
est daughter,  entered  the  room,  accompanied  by  her 
constant  companion,  Rover,  a  large  spaniel,  whose 
collar  was  now  ornamented  with  fresh  flowers,  very 
similar  to  those  the  favored  children  had  just  presented 
to  their  mother.  Margaret  was  about  eleven  years 
old  ;  and  though  her  complexion  was  less  delicate,  and 
her  features  less  regular,  than  those  of  her  sisters, 
intelligence  beamed  brightly  and  surely  from  her  dark 
eyes;  and  feeling,  sentiment,  and  suffering  had  already 
imprinted  their  characters  on  her  countenance. 

'What  is  the  matter  now  —  crying  again?'  said 
Mrs.  Shelton  in  no  very  gentle  tone. 

'  Morris,  Nurse  Morris  is  so  very  ill,'  sobbed  the 
poor  child. 

'  And  will  your  crying  make  her  better.?' 

'  Oh,  mamma,  do  send  for  a  doctor,'  said  Margaret, 
endeavoring  to  stifle  her  tears  ;  for  she  felt  instinctively 
that  a  storm  was  gathering,  and  that  she  should  be  re- 
proached as  the  cause  of  innumerable  calamities,  if  her 
grief  disturbed  the  delicate  '  nerves,'  or  rather  temper, 
of  her  capricious  parent. 

Mr.  Simmonds  is  too  busy  to  come  before  to-morrow; 
and  why  cannot  you  call  people  by  their  names,  in- 
stead of  using  that  vulgar  phrase, '  send  for  a  doctor?' 


298 


ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 


But  I  suppose  they  are  Morris's  own  words ;  you  pick 
up  everything  from  the  servants.' 

The  rebuked  child  stooped  down  to  fondle  the  dog, 
and  hide  the  tears  which  she  had  failed  to  drive  back, 
while  her  sisters  exchanged  glances  that  seemed  to 
say,  '  She  does  not  bring  mamma  a  nosegay.' 

Mrs.  Shelton  read  the  glance,  and  had»before  ob- 
served the  flowers  which,  loosely  twined  round  the 
dog's  collar,  were  now  dropping  about  the  floor. 

'  Come,  clear  away  this  litter,'  she  exclaimed,  ad- 
dressing Margaret ;  '  you  and  Rover  and  Morris  are 
only  fit  company  for  each  other,  I  think.  Your  sisters, 
indeed,  thought  of  their  mother  first,  and  preferred 
bringing  her  their  flowers  to  dressing  up  a  dog  with 
them.' 

Another  rush  of  tears  from  poor  Margaret  was  the 
rejoinder,  as  she  sobbed  out — 'Last  —  last  —  time 
—  mamma  —  you  would  not  have  my  flow —  flowers.' 

'  I  cannot  bear  this  noise ;  go  away,'  said  Mrs.  Shel- 
ton, with  a  wave  of  her  hand  ;  and  Margaret,  picking 
up  the  flowers  which  she  ventured  to  leave  on  the 
table,  hastened  to  obey.  The  dog  followed  her,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  the  '  neglected  child '  was  sitting  upon 
the  old  nurse's  bed,  where  Rover  had  mounted  also,  as 
if  for  the  purpose  of  licking  the  hand  of  his  weeping 
mistress,  and  offering  her  his  mute  consolations. 

Mrs.  Shelton  was  considered  in  society 'fascinating,' 
and  a  '  beauty ; '  but,  in  truth,  she  was  vain,  selfish, 
and  capricious.  Her  husband  was  a  shrewd  worldly- 
minded  man,  with  a  much  smaller  proportion  of  the 
ballast  of  principle  than  needs  belong  even  to  such  a 
character.     A   pair   of  this  kind   were  not  likely  to 


THE    NEGLECTED    CHILD.  299 

regulate  their  household  very  admirably ;  and  the 
advent  of  poor  little  Margaret  had  been  most  unpro- 
pitious.  In  the  first  place,  a  boy  had  been  ardently 
desired,  for  whom  doubtless  had  been  reserved  a  share 
of  that  sort  of  affection  which  capricious  people  can 
only  bestow,  and  which  had  been  lavished  already  in 
due  proportion  on  the  elder  girls.  But  this  formed  no 
inheritance  for  the  unwelcome  little  girl,  on  whom  fell 
the  additional  calamity  of  receiving  a  baptismal  name 
unpleasing  to  the  ears  of  an  influential  elder  of  the 
family,  who,  with  a  consistency,  it  would  seem,  in- 
herent in  the  race,  took  a  dislike  to  the  poor  infant 
forthwith,  and  was  heard  to  declare  that  no  one  of  that 
name  (he  had  been  jilted  by  a  Margaret  in  his  youth) 
should  ever  touch  a  farthing  of  his  money.  Brothers, 
however,  in  due  time  appeared,  and  they  finally  jostled 
poor  Margaret  from  any  slight  hold  she  might  have 
had  on  the  parental  tenderness.  From  babyhood  she 
had  been  as  it  were  a  shuttlecock  in  the  house,  tossed 
to  and  fro  by  every  gale  of  temper ;  blamed,  scolded, 
punished  often  ;  but  caressed  and  petted  seldom,  or 
never,  except  by  her  constant  friend  Nurse  Morris,  to 
whose  affection,  ill-directed  though  it  might  sometimes 
be,  she  was  indebted  for  almost  every  word  or  act  of 
kindness  she  could  remember. 

The  illness  of  old  Nurse  Morris  became  more  and 
more  alarming ;  and  when  the  busy  Mr.  Simmonds  found 
time  to  pay  her  a  visit,  he  looked  grave,  and  ordered 
those  prompt  remedies  which  startle  even  the  thought- 
less and  indifferent  into  the  consciousness  that  death 
must  be  -hovering  near.     Margaret  was  sitting  on  the 


300  ENGLISH    TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

Stairs  watching  Mr.  Simmonds's  departure  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  second  or  third  visit  to  poor  Morris. 

'  Sir —  Mr.  Simmonds,'  she  exclaimed,  as  she  crept 
after  him  into  the  hall,  resolutely  checking  her  tears, 
because  she  had  been  so  often  told  not  to  cry  when 
she  was  speaking  to  any  one  — '  do  tell  me,  Sir,  if 
nurse  is  going  to  die.' 

'  Little  girls  should  not  ask  such  questions,'  replied 
the  doctor,  scarcely  looking  at  the  child,  and  since  she 
had  so  effectually  concealed  her  feelings,  not  at  all 
aware  of  the  anguish  of  her  young  heart. 

The  language  of  contempt  was  nothing  new  to  her, 
and  yet  a  flash  of  something  like  anger  and  scorn  might 
have  been  detected  from  those  dark  eyes,  had  there 
been  any  one  near  to  read  such  a  sign,  as  she  turned 
away  once  more  to  plant  herself  beside  the  old  ser- 
vant's bed.  In  a  few  minutes,  however,  she  was 
summoned  to  '  lessons,'  which,  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  governess,  were  so  accurately  prepared,  that  she 
made  some  remarks  on  the  subject. 

'  You  told  me,'  replied  the  child,  trembhng  with  fear, 
lest  she  should  be  deprived  of  the  promised  reward, 
that  if  there  were  no  mistake,  I  might  stay  all  day  with 
Morris.'  What  a  pity,  that  when  Margaret  Shelton 
was  called  idle,  obstinate,  and  self-willed,  her  parents 
—  and,  copying  them,  her  teachers  — never  thought  of 
the  sweet  and  simple  plan  of  ruling  her  through  her 
affections  ! 

'  I  know  I  shall  not  live  many  days,'  said  the  old 
nurse,  when  it  happened  that  she  was  alone  with  Mar- 
garet ;  '  and  there  is  much,  my  poor  pet,  that  I  want 
to  say  to  you.     Now,  don't  cry,  but  listen,'  shd  con- 


THE    NEGLECTED    CHILD.  301 

tinued.  '  I  made  my  will  long  ago,  and  I  have  left 
you  near  upon  five  hundred  pounds  that  is  in  the  bank, 
part  of  it  prize-money  my  poor  old  husband  got  in  the 
war-time,  and  partly  my  own  savings.  Now,  remem- 
ber it  is  to  be  yours  either  when  you  are  of  age,  or 
when  you  marry,  whichever  happens  first ;  and  though 
you  are  young  to  talk  of  such  things,  remember  old 
nurse's  words;  get  a  good  husband  as  soon  as  you  can, 
for  it's  my  belief  you'll  never  have  a  bit  of  peace  or 
comfort  at  home.' 

'Oh,  nurse,  nurse!'  interrupted  the  poor  girl,  'if 
you  die,  what  will  become  of  me  ?  Nobody  loves  me 
but  you  —  nobody  ever  did  love  me  but  you.'  And 
she  threw  her  arms  wildly  round  the  old  woman's 
neck. 

'  I  know  that,'  returned  Morris,  who,  though  an 
affectionate  creature,  it  will  be  perceived  had  little  or 
no  governing  principle.  '  I  know  that,  and  I  have  only 
stayed  in  the  house  all  these  years  for  your  sake. 
They  don't  love  you,  and  tiiat's  the  fact ;  but  never 
mind  :  don't  you  care  about  them.  I  think  you're  just 
as  pretty  as  your  petted  sisters,  and  I  dare  say  some 
day  some  one  else  will  think  so  too.  And  now  you 
must  remember  they  cannot  keep  the  money  away 
from  you  ;  and  you're  to  have  my  gold  watch  ;  here  it 
is — you  know  it  —  it  goes  capitally,  though  it  is  large 
and  old-fashioned,  and  not  like  such  as  ladies  wear; 
but  you'll  keep  it  for  old  nurse's  sake,  wont  you  ?' 

'  That  I  will,'  sobbed  Margaret, '  and  never  part  with 
it.' 

'And  here,' continued  Morris,  drawing  an  old  pocket 
from  nander  her  pillow, '  is  a  matter  of  twenty  pounds 


302  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

in  notes,  gold,  and  silver;  they  may  bury  me,'  she 
whispered  as  in  a  sort  of  parenthesis,  '  out  of  the 
wages  that  are  due  ;  so  take  it  now,  and  hide  it ;  you'll 
find  a  use  for  money  at  odd  times,  I  warrant.'  A 
violent  fit  of  coughing  put  a  stop  to  the  sick  woman's 
words,  and  perhaps  prevented  more  counsel,  which, 
however  well-intentioned,  had  so  much  that  was  per- 
nicious in  it.  Alas  !  why  had  Mr.  and  Mrs,  Shelton, 
by  their  harshness  and  apathy,  thrown  their  warm- 
hearted child  entirely  upon  this  one  affection. 

The  old  servant's  prediction  was  verified.  She  did 
not  live  many  days,  and  her  will  was  found  to  be 
exactly  as  she  had  declared,  with,  however,  the  speci- 
fication that  the  interest  of  the  '  near  upon '  five 
hundred  pounds  was  to  accumulate  until  one  of  the 
events  to  which  she  had  alluded  —  namely,  Margaret's 
marriage,  or  coming  of  age  —  should  take  place. 
Meanwhile  the  sorrow-stricken  child  unpractised  in 
deception,  and  no  willing  pupil  in  the  art,  even  though 
instructed  in  it  by  the  dying  lips  of  her  beloved  nurse, 
felt  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  her  secret  —  the  hoard 
contained  in  the  old  pocket.  She  might  have  con- 
cealed it  easily,  but  her  nature  was  too  ingenuous  long 
to  do  so. 

It  was  well  known  that  Nurse  Morris  was  worth 
money,  and  it  is  very  likely  that  rumor  had  exagge- 
rated the  amount.  It  is  likely,  too,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Shelton  were  not  blind  to  the  probability  of  her  leav- 
ing her  savings  among  the  children  she  had  helped  to 
rear ;  for  she  had  often  declared  that  she  had  not  a 
relation  in  the  world.  But  they  were  quite  startled  to 
find  their  least  loved  Margaret  the  old  servant's  sole 


THE    NEGLECTED   CHILD.  303 

heiress,  Alas !  the  fact  was  treated  as  a  new  offence, 
and  a  new  phase  of  suffering  was  shown  to  her;  for 
certainly  she  never  before  could  have  been  an  object  of 
envy  to  her  elder  sisters.  I  believe,  however,  that  the 
present  possession  of  the  large  old-fashioned  gold  watch 
was,  and  not  unnaturally,  a  something  more  coveted 
than  Margaret's  future  expectations.  Certainly  a  watch 
is  the  gift  most  longed  for,  both  by  boy  and  girl,  even 
though  a  timepiece  may  mark  the  hours  in  every 
chamber  of  their  dwelling  ;  and  often  is  it  the  last 
possession  that  poverty  wrings  from  man  or  woman. 
Margaret,  thus  endowed,  took  a  sort  of  childish  pre- 
cedence over  the  spoiled  and  selfish  pair,  which  they 
could  ill  endure  ;  while  on  her  part  she  was  so  unused 
to  have  any  advantage  over  them,  that  she  was  quite 
unconscious  of  the  feelings  her  legacy  had  engendered; 
besides  her  poor  little  heart  as  yet  was  wrung  with  grief 
for  the  loss  of  her  much-loved  nurse. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  old  servant's  funeral  when 
Margaret  crept  softly  into  the  drawing-room.  '  Mamma, 
may  I  come  in  .'* '  she  asked  as  she  entered. 

'Yes,  if  you  will  be  as  quiet  as  your  sisters  are.' 

This  was  not  very  warm  encouragement ;  but,  accus- 
tomed as  the  poor  child  was  to  rebuke,  it  was  anything 
but  a  repulse. 

'  Mamma,  I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you,'  she  continued, 
her  voice  trembling  from  many  causes  ;  '  will  you  take 
care  of  some  money  for  me  —  some  money  poor  Mor- 
ris gave  me  just  before  she  died,  though  she  told  me  to 
keep  it  for  myself?  But  it  would  be  wrong  not  to  tell 
you,  I  know.' 

'  Give  it  me  this  instant  1 '  replied  Mrs.  Shelton,  her 


304  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

ire  rapidly  kindling ;  '  why,  you  naughty  girl,  you 
deceitful  little  creature,  what  do  you  think  you  deserve 
for  all  this  slyness  ?  Good  gracious  me  !  nineteen 
pounds  odd  shillings ;  you  wicked  little  creature,  to 
hide  all  this  money  for  a  week  ! '  And  by  the  time 
her  harangue  had  proceeded  thus  far,  the  lady's  pas- 
sion had  so  risen,  that  she  seized  poor  Margaret  by  the 
shoulder,  shook  her  for  a  minute,  and  as  her  combat- 
iveness  reached  its  climax,  gave  her  a  box  on  the  ear 
which  almost  threw  her  down. 

*It  was  wrong,  mamma,'  sobbed  the  poor  child  ;  '  but 

oh,  pray  do  forgive  me !      It  was  nurse '      But 

here  she  checked  her  words  ;  for  she  felt  it  would  be 
easier  to  bear  reproaches  directed  against  herself  than 
reproof  of  the  dead.  It  was  too  late,  however ;  for 
Mrs.  Shellon,  quick  at  surmises,  had  already  divined 
the  truth. 

'  An  old  good-for-nothing  creature,'  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Shelton  :  '  it  was  she,  I  suppose,  who  told  you  to  hide 
the  money,  and  taught  you  all  sorts  of  deceit.  You 
are  much  too  young  to  have  any  money  at  all ;  I  shall 
not  give  you  a  farthing  of  it.  And  to  punish  you  for 
such  naughtiness,  I  shall  take  away  the  watch  till  you 
know  how  to  behave  yourself.' 

Margaret's  anguish  would  have  melted  any  softer 
heart  than  that  of  a  silly,  ill-tempered  woman  ;  for  silli- 
ness, for  want  of  the  power  of  thought  and  sympathy, 
is  usually  unfeeling.  But  the  sort  of  anguish  that 
proceeds  from  the  blight  of  a  young  nature,  from  the 
misapprehension  of  its  motives,  and  the  utter  want 
of  all  appreciation  of  its  best  emotions,  is  very  apt  to 
harden  the  character.     Grief  has  a  maturing  hand; 


THE   NEGLECTED    CHILD.  305 

the  mind  is  instructed  through  the  feelings  much  more 
than  wc  commonly  acknowledge ;  and  when,  after  a 
week  of  silent  suffering,  the  cherished  watch  was  re- 
stored to  Margaret  Shelton  —  because,  as  she  very  well 
knew,  the  possession  of  it  no  longer  rendered  her  an 
object  of  envy  to  her  more  favored  sisters,  ^ince  they 
had  been  presented  with  small  fashionable  watches, 
purchased  with  the  hoard  of  whiclv  she  had  been  de- 
prived —  she  was  no  longer  the  child  whose  heart  was 
all  tendrils,  and  whose  character  was  as  wax  to  mould. 
It  was  some  little  time  after  this,  that,  in  examining 
an  old  note-case,  part  of  the  contents  of  the  pocket 
which  she  had  been  permitted  to  keep,  more  carefully 
than  she  had  done  \before,  she  discovered  a  sovereign 
between  its  folds.  No  doubt  it  had  been  part  of  the 
hoard  which  had  slipped  accidentally  into  its  hiding- 
place ;  but  this  accession  of  wealth  was  a  serious 
trouble  to  poor  Margaret.  To  keep  it,  or  to  take  it  to 
her  mother,  she  was  equally  afraid  ;  and  to  spend  it, 
she  da.ed  not,  since  she,  who  had  never  any  money  of 
her  own,  could  not  make  purchases  without  exciting 
suspicion.  From  the  harshness  and  misapprehension 
which  had  driven  the  neglected  child  to  turn  her 
thoughts  inwardly,  and  seek  counsel  only  of  herself, 
she  had  at  least  acquired  the  power  of  deciding 
quickly ;  and  the  resolution  she  came  to  was,  that 
she  would  take  an  opportunity,  when  walking  out,  to 
hang  baclf  from  her  companions,  and  give  the  sove- 
reign to  a  certain  poor  woman,  a  crossing-sweeper, 
whom  they  often  encountered.  She  would  thus,  she 
argued,  have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  it  would 
do  some  good,  while  she  should  escape  all  risk  of  that 
20 


306  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

blame  which  would  have  fallen  on  her  almost  equally, 
had  she  spent,  acknowledged  —  for  her  ignorance  of 
its  possession  would  not  have  been  believed  —  or  been 
found  out  in  hoarding  the  piece  of  gold.  It  was  a 
childlike  plan  ;  for  a  more  experienced  person  might 
have  foreseen  that  some  eloquent  demonstration  of 
gratitude  from  the  poor  sweeper,  or  other  circumstance, 
would  probably  betray  the  munificence  of  her  gift. 
And  so  it  fell  out ;  for  the  poor  woman,  who  was  an 
honest  creature,  knew  the  family  by  sight ;  and  believ- 
ing the  sovereign  must  have  been  given  her  by  mistake, 
and  yet,  as  it  was  wrapped  in  paper,  not  having  discov- 
ered its  value  in  time  to  run  after  the  child,  for  she 
was  lame,  she  prudently  and  properly  brought  it  to  the 
house;  and  asking  to  see  Mrs.  Shelton,  the  whole  affair 
came  to  light. 

The  scene  which  followed  was  beyond  description. 
The  old  crossing-sweeper  was  rewarded  for  her  hon- 
esty with  a  few  shillings,  and  dismissed  ;  but  though,  of 
course,  she  knew  little  of  the  circumstances  which  had 
led  to  Margaret's  gift,  she  saw  and  heard  enough  to 
make  an  indelible  impression  on  her  mind,  and  one 
which,  as  we  shall  find  in  the  sequel,  led  to  important 
results. 

'  Mamma,  mamma,  I  should  have  given  it  to  you,' 
repeated  the  child  over  and  over  again ;  '  but  1  was 
afraid  you  would  have  thought  I  had  kept  it  on  pur- 
pose, and  would  have  scolded  and  punished  me. 
Indeed,  indeed,  I  am  speaking  truth.' 

But  Margaret  was  not  believed.  Nay,  she  was 
suspected  of  having  further  hoards.  Every  likely 
place  was  searched  ;  and  many  an  opprobrious  epithet 


THE    NEGLECTED   CHILD.  307 

was  hurled  on  the  head  of  the  defenceless  child  by  the 
irritated  temper  of  a  weak  woman.  This  was  a  second 
era  in  the  life  of  Margaret  Shelton,  another  ordeal 
through  which  she  passed,  and  by  which  her  character 
was  moulded  and  hardened.  And  if  I  have  dwelt 
perhaps  too  long  on  these  childish  incidents,  it  is 
because  I  have  u  firm  belief  that  the  virtue,  happiness, 
and  moral  advancement  of  the  next  generation  depend 
so  wonderfully  on  the  training  of  the  present  children, 
that  no  child  is  too  young,  or  in  position  too  obscure, 
to  exercise  in  the  future  an  influence  for  good  or  evil, 
according  to  the  impressions  which  are  made  on  its 
malleable  nature.  To  treat  a  child  with  caprice,  to  rob 
it  of  its  own  self-respect  by  doubting  its  word,  (unless 
under  rare  circumstances,)  to  deny  it  that  sympathy 
for  which  it  silently  asks,  are  those  evil  deeds  of  the 
unthinking  which  bring  about  as  grave  and  disastrous 
results  as  any  mistakes  of  active  politicians. 

From  the  time  of  her  nurse's  death,  and  its  imme- 
diate consequences,  any  observing  person  would  have 
marked  a  decided  change  in  Margaret  Shelton.  She 
was  no  longer  a  tearful  child,  apparently  yearning  for 
affection,  and  thus  meeting  with  constant  rebuffs ;  nay, 
she  seldom  demonstrated  regard  for  anything  except 
the  dog  Rover,  which  was  now  growing  old,  and  did 
not  live  above  a  year  or  two.  She  acquired  her  al« 
lotted  lessons  with  that  calm  indifference  which  gave 
no  encouragement  to  teachers  to  take  much  trouble 
with  her,  especially  as  they  found  a  quicker  reward 
'  for  their  labor  in  adding  to  the  showy  accomplishments 
of  the  elder  sisters  —  a  mode  of  proceeding  which 
drew  down  money  and  praise.     And  thus  time  passed 


308  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

/  . 

on  ;  the  best  part  of  Margaret's  education  consisting  in 
the  desultory  sort  of  reading  in  which  she  contrived 
to  indulge  ;  and  the  age  of  sixteen  found  her  grown, 
by  slow  degrees,  into  something  much  more  like  the 
waiting-maid  of  her  elder  sisters  than  their  companion. 
That  she  did  not  visit  with  them,  was  said  to  be  on 
account  of  her  youth ;  and  the  same  reason  was  offered 
for  her  simpler  and  less  expensive  dress.  But  two, 
three  years  rolled  away.  She  became  much  older 
than  they  were  when  first  ushered  into  society,  yet 
no  change  was  there  in  her  destiny.  Meanwhile  the 
weak,  unjust,  and  silly  mother  found  no  improvement 
in  her  own  temper  proceed  from  disappointment ;  for 
she  had  educated  her  darlings  solely  with  the  view  of 
their  'getting  well  married;'  and  astonishment  and 
vexation  at  the  continuance  of  their  single  blessedness 
made  no  little  commotion  in  her  mind.  Neither  were 
the  dispositions  of  the  two  young  ladies  themselves 
greatly  improved  by  finding  themselves  less  idolized 
than  they  had  been  foolishly  led  to  expect.  And,  as 
if  a  crowning  calamity  were  needed,  Mr.  Shelton  had 
losses  in  business,  and  the  family  were  obliged  to 
retrench  !  Poor  Margaret !  she  was  the  ready  con- 
ductor to  carry  off  the  storms  of  temper  which  arose 
from  every  quarter  of  the  domestic  horizon  ;  nor  must 
the  selfishness  and  indifference  of  her  sisters  be  thought 
more  unnatural  than  her  parents'  neglect ;  in  fact,  they 
had  come  to  consider  her  as  in  quite  a  different  position 
from  their  own. 

It  was  the  autumn  of  the  year;  and  though,  in 
consideration  of  his  reduced  finances,  Mr.  Shelton 
declined  taking  a  house  at  Brighton,  where  for  many 


THE    NEGLECTED   CHILD. 


909 


seasons  his  wife  had  insisted  on  spending  a  portion 
of  the  year,  he  agreed  to  a  less  expensive  sojourn  at 
one  of  the  French  seaports.  Accordingly,  early  one 
morning  the  family  embarked.  The  weather  was 
wet,  and  the  whole  party  had  risen  at  an  hour  which 
they  called  '  the  middle  of  the  night ; '  neither  cir- 
cumstance being  one  likely  to  render  pleasant  very 
uncertain  tempers.  Poor  Margaret !  she  was  in  the 
way  when  not  wanted,  and  absent  when  called  for ;  in 
short,  she  seemed  to  have  done  a  hundred  things  she 
should  not  have  done  ;  and,  thus  blamed  and  scolded, 
no  wonder  she  felt  glad,  when  at  ten  or  eleven  o'clock 
the  skies  cleared  and  a  brilliant  sun  shone  forth  — 
by  which  time  the  steamer  was  well  out  at  sea — to 
find  a  quiet  corner  on  the  deck,  far  away  from  the 
family. 

She  sat  apparently  musing,  absorbed  in  the  contem- 
plation of  sea  and  sky  ;  yet  it  is  very  likely  that  she 
might  have  been  observed  by  many  of  the  passengers, 
although  she  scarcely  noticed  them  ;  for  though  plainly, 
almost  childishly  dressed  for  her  age,  there  was  a 
natural  grace  in  her  figure,  and  though  not  strictly 
handsome,  she  had  a  sweet  and  gentle  expression  of 
countenance,  which  often  pleased  more  than  beauty. 
Presently  one  of  her  young  brothers  came  hurriedly 
towards  her  —  'Oh,  here  you  are!'  he  exclaimed; 
'  Mamma  says  she  hopes  the  box  that  holds  Augusta 
and  Caroline's  new  bonnets  has  not  got  wet,  and  she 
says  you  had  better  look  after  it,  for  you  know  where 
the  luggage  was  put ; '  and  having  already  struck  up 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  man  at  the  helm,  to 


310  ENGLISH   TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

whom  he  was  extremely  anxious  to  return,  the  boy  ran 
off  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

Margaret  was  accustomed  to  obedience,  and  she  in- 
stantly rose  to  make  the  required  investigation  ;  indeed 
her  seat  had  been  very  near  the  pile  of  luggage,  and 
she  thought  she  could  already  discover  from  beneath 
the  tarpauling  a  corner  of  the  important  box  safe  and 
dry.  She  was  mistaken,  however,  though  she  knew  it 
must  be  near  that  spot,  and  fancied  that  if  she  could 
push  on  one  side,  even  to  the  distance  of  a  few  inches, 
a  heavy  package  which  impeded  her  view,  she  should 
ascertain  the  fact.  At  the  instant  of  her  attempting 
this,  a  young  man,  whom  she  remembered  had  sat  near 
her  for  some  time,  stepped  forward  to  assist  her  ;  but, 
alas  I  though  she  quickly  discovered  her  sisters'  bonnet 
box  was  safe,  a  heavy  chest,  disturbed  by  the  movement, 
fell  upon  her  foot,  bruising  it  very  severely,  and  caus- 
ing her  the  most  exquisite  pain. 

A  fine  and  sentimental  young  lady  would  certainly 
have  fainted,  or  shrieked,  or  in  some  other  approved 
manner  have  rendered  herself  conspicuous  on  be- 
coming the  object  of  such  a  catastrophe.  Margaret, 
however,  was  too  well  accustomed  to  sclf-i'eliance,  and 
to  endurance  —  had  been  so  little  in  the  habit  of  re- 
ceiving  sympathy  —  that  though  the  pain  was  excessive, 
she  endured  it  with  the  virtue  of  a  martyr.  The  young 
stranger  near  her,  who  soon  gave  his  name  as  Arthur 
Williams,  was  struck  with  the  remarkable  degree  of 
self-control  which  she  evinced,  and  earnestly  offering 
his  aid,  the  first  link  of  a  chain  of  sympathy  was  estab- 
lished, which  influenced  the  future  life  of  both. 

Arthur  Williams  was  but  three-and-twenty,  yet  he 


THE   NEGLECTED   CHILD.  311 

looked  nearer  thirty  ;  and  no  physiognomist  would  have 
hesitated  to  declare  that  he  had  thought  and  suffered 
deeply.  And  yet  there  was  a  strange  contradiction  in 
the  expression  of  his  handsome  countenance,  and  a  faint 
shade  of  irresolution  about  the  mouth,  which  was  the 
index  to  the  fault  of  »his  life  —  a  want  of  firmness  to 
withstand  temptation  ;  so  that  too  often  he  had  known 
the  right,  yet  done  the  wrong.  Brouglit  up  by  a  weak 
and  foolish  mother,  who  had  instilled  neither  religion 
nor  morals  as  principles  in  his  mind,  Arthur  Williams 
became  his  own  master  at  sixteen.  A  small  fortune 
to  which  her  death  entitled  him,  was  forestalled  by  his 
youthful  extravagances  before  it  came  legally  to  hand  ; 
and — to  reverse  the  ol(i-fashioned  story-tellers'  plan 
of  shrouding  every  personage  in  a  robe  of  mystery, 
until  the  grand  denouement  acts  as  a  harlequin's  wand 
to  show  each  in  his  proper  colors  —  I  will  frankly  own, 
that  when  he  encountered  Margaret  Shelton,  he  was 
flying  to  the  continent  with  an  equally  guilty  com- 
panion, to  evade  the  consequences  of  embezzling  the 
money  of  their  employers.  He  had  assumed  a  name, 
and  by  that  only  need  he  be  known  in  this  narrative. 
He  called  his  associate  —  who  was  more  hardened  in 
guilt  than  Williams,  coarser-minded,  and  every  way  his 
inferior —  Jackson. 

'  Why,'  exclaimed  this  companion  about  an  hour 
after  Margaret's  accident,  '  if  it  were  a  time  for  such 
fancies,  I  should  really  think  you  had  taken  a  down- 
right liking  to  that  girl  —  what  people  call  falling 
in  love.  Now,  it  sfrikes  me  it  might  turn  out  a  good 
spec ;  they  seem  dashing  folks,  though  this  pretty  little 
youngest  is  a  dowdy.     I  have  a  great  mind  to  pump 


312  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

the  servants,  and  find  out  if  there  is  any  money.  Why, 
you  know,  a  few  hundreds  would  put  all  to  rights;  they 
wouldn't  prosecute  if  we  could  refund  ;  they  'd  know 
better  than  that. 

'  Ay,'  replied  Williams,  '  and  life  m  the  New  World 
afterwards  with  such  a  companioa.' 

*  Well,  try  it,'  returned  the  other,  '  you  know  I  have 
got  a  wife  already  ;  and,  besides,  I  am  no  gentleman 
—  she  wouldn't  have  me.' 

Jackson  by  feigning  himself  to  be  Arthur  WiUiams's 
servant,  did  find  out  a  great  deal  concerning  the  Shel- 
tons  —  the  truth,  and  something  more  than  the  truth, 
about  them.  For  the  domestics,  as  is  not  unusual,  had 
no  very  clear  sense  of  truth,  and  chose  to  increase 
their  own  importance  by  adding  to  the  worldly  fortunes 
of  the  family,  and  in  particular  giving  an  original 
version  to  the  story  of  Morris's  legacy,  which  was 
multiplied  by  four  at  least. 

Arthur  Williams  was  not  a  thorough  villain.  His 
was  a  character  even  more  painful  to  contemplate. 
His  associate,  Jackson,  could  not  comprehend  that,  in 
seeking  Margaret  Shelton,  he  had  any  thought  but  that 
of  obtaining  her  property  ;  but  it  was  not  so  ;  for  be- 
fore many  weeks  had  elapsed,  he  loved  her  with  the 
ardor  and  sincerity  of  deep  affection.  Then  indeed 
was  it  that  the  agony  of  remorse  for  his  past  misdeeds 
and  blighted  character  tortured  him  almost  to  mad- 
ness. 

But  J  must  return  for  a  moment  to  that  eventful  day 
on  the  steamboat.  The  lameness  consequent  on  Mar- 
garet's accident  proved  a  ready  excuse  for  a  thousand 
attentions  during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage,  while 


THE    NEGLECTED    CHILD.  313 

the  accident  itself  was  the  medium  of  a  self-introduc- 
tion on  Arthur  Williams's  part  to  her  family.  As  the 
hours  passed  on,  and  the  voyagers  became  more  and 
more  weary,  Margaret  was  more  completely  neglected 
by  her  mother  and  sisters,  more  entirely  thrown  on  the 
stranger's  care.  And  there  was  something  so  strange 
in  hearing  any  one  speak  kindly  to  her,  or  of  being 
the  object  of  solicitude,  that  she  perceived  not  the  gulf 
over  which  she  was  impending. 

The  acquaintance  thus  commenced,  Arthur  Williams 
took  care  to  improve  ;  and  few  circumstances  offer 
more  facilities  for  this  sort  of  chance  intimacy  than 
the  idle  lounging  of  a  watering-place.  Yet  the  Shel- 
tons,  who  had  a  great  deal  of  purse-pride,  and  a  sort 
of  vanity  rather  than  any  higher  feeling,  which  disin- 
clined them  from  associating  with  those  of  doubtful 
reputation,  were  by  no  means  satisfied  with  all  they 
saw  of  young  Williams.  But  it  was  too  late.  Mar- 
garet having  been  left  uninstructed  in  the  necessity 
for  exercising  caution,  in  giving  encouragement  to  a 
stranger  of  whom  little  or  nothing  was  known  —  igno- 
rant of  the  calamities  which  so  frequently  ensue  from 
misplaced  confidence  —  perhaps  flattered,  and  at  least 
pleased,  with  the  attentions  bestowed  upon  her,  had 
already  yielded  up  her  affections.  Not  to  delay  the 
history  of  this  sad  affair  —  in  two  months  from  her 
meeting  with  Arthur  Williams,  Margaret  Shelton  left 
her  home  for  ever,  taking  wjtl^her  only  the  clothes 
she  wore,  and  the  ponderous  watch,  which  was  still 
fondly  cherished. 

Before  the  marriage,  Arthur  Williams  was  aware  of 
the  real  amount  of  the  old  nurse's  legacy  ;  but  as  I 
SI 


314  ENGLISH    TALES    A^D    SKETCHES. 

have  already  said,  though  stained  by  crime,  he  had 
still  enough  of  humanity  left  to  love  her  truly  and 
devotedly.  Had  she  been  penniless,  he  would  have 
been  unselfish  enough  to  refrain  from  asking  her  to 
share  his  wretched  fortunes ;  but  he  now  looked  for- 
ward to  her  few  hundreds  releasing  him  from  the  fate 
which  hung  like  a  drawn  sword  over  his  head  ;  while 
he  hopefully  and  resolutely  looked  forward  to  support- 
ing her  humbly,  but  by  honest  industry,  for  the  future. 
Alas !  what  has  power  to  dim  the  future  like  the  ever- 
rising  mists  of  past  errors  ! 

Arthur's  associate  had  deceived  him  in  the  amount 
of  their  mutual  liabilities,  and  seizing  on  the  first  sums 
he  could  touch,  the  hardened  villain  made  off  with  it, 
and  left  Williams  unable  to  refund  the  remainder. 
Now  the  truth  must  have  been  revealed  to  Margaret, 
though  of  how  she  bore  the  shock  there  is  no  chron- 
icle. It  is  only  known  that  she  clung  to  her  husband 
through  all  trials,  and  that  she  hymbled  herself  to 
apply  to  her  offended  family  for  assistance  —  an  ap- 
plication which  met  only  a  stern  and  brief  refusal. 

What  a  year  of  agony  that  must  have  been  which 
followed  the  ill-omened  marriage !  —  in  wretched 
poverty,  and  hiding  from  the  officers  of  justice.  Yet 
amid  all  this  misery  a  child  was  born  —  the  sole  heir 
of  its  unhappy  parents'  love  ;  for  affection  still  reigned 
in  their  hearts  ;  and  these  young  creatures,  whatever 
their  separate  errors  had  been,  were  still  true  to  each 
other.  The  latter  part  of  that  year  they  were  hidden 
in  London  ;  for  Williams  Jiad  been  induced  to  return 
to  England  by  the  sanguine  representations  of  the 
greater  villain,  Jackson. 


THE    NEGLECTED    CHILD.  315 

Margaret's  infant  was  about  two  months  old  when 
the  threatened  blow  fell;  when  her  husband's  hiding- 
place  was  discovered,  and  he  was  dragged  from  the 
humble  home,  which  yet  by  constant  industry  he  had, 
under  his  assumed  name,  contrived  to  provide,  to 
answer  the  charges  of  fraud  and  embezzlement  which 
were  brought  against  him.  Proofs  were  abundant ; 
there  was  no  chance  of  escape  —  no  mitigating  cir- 
cumstance thak  might  tend  to  lighten  his  punishment 

—  and  a  few  weeks  saw  poor  Margaret  the  wife  of  s^ 
convicted  felon — her  husband  under  sentence  of  trans- 
portation for  .life  !  Bitterly,  bitterly  did  she  pay  for 
the  one  act  of  disobedience  —  the  wretched  marriage 

—  the  more  wretched  because  she  truly  loved  and  was 
beloved.  But  oh,  how  much  more  dark  the  fault  of 
those  whose  cold  neglect  and  cruel  caprice  had  turned 
back  on  her  own  heart 'the  fountains  of  natural  affec- 
tion, which,  when  they  found  a  channel,  flowed  with 
irresistible  force  ! 

Used  as  such  persons  are  to  heart-rending  scenes, 
the  officers  about  the  prison  were  touched  at  the  deep 
misery  of  Arthur  Williams  and  his  wife  ;  and  it  was 
after  the  last  permitted  interview  —  the  fearful  parting 

—  that  Margaret  encountered  an  old  woman,  who 
addressed  her  with  some  words  of  sympathy,  and  made 
herself  known  as  that  some  time  crossing-sweeper,  to 
whom  the  unhappy  child  had  given  the  sovereign  she 
dared  not  keep.  In  rags  and  poverty  she  still  was,  and 
in  deeper  misery  too  ;  for  though  passing  honest  her« 
self,  a  wretched  ignorant  child,  now  grown  to  manhood, 
had  failed  to  withstand  the  temptations  of  want,  and 


316  ENGLISH   TALES   AND    SKETCHES. 

lay  in  a  neighboring  cell  to  that  of  Arthur  Williams, 
convicted  of  some  petty  theft. 

Associated  as  she  had  been  with  guilt,  yet  Margaret 
shuddered  anew  amid  her  anguish ;  it  seemed  as  if 
another  nerve  were  laid  open  to  torture,  to  feel  a  new 
humiliation.  Yet  the  woman  meant  neither  presump- 
tion nor  rudeness ;  she  had  a  grateful  recollection  of 
Margaret's  childish  gift.  Unregarded  herseff,  she  had 
watched  her  for  years.  She  knew  hei«  in  a  moment, 
and  had  contrived  in  some  tell-tale  manner,  before 
addressing  her,  to  learn  the  cause  of  her  great  'and 
absorbing  grief. 

'  Oh,  ma'am,'  whispered  the  woman,  '  if  you  have 
money  enough  to  follow  the  ship  a  little  while,  I  do 
believe  they  would  take  you  on  board.  I  did  hear  of 
a  wife  that  so  softened  the  captain's  heart,  that  he 
took  her  on  board  ;  and  though  I've  heard  tell  that  she 
never  saw  her  husband  till  they  arrived  in  foreign 
parts,  she  had  the  comfort  of  knowing  she  was  near 
him.  And  when  they  did  land,  oh,  they  met  then  ; 
and  when  by  good  behavior  he  had  won  some  favor, 
they  lived  comfortably  enough,  as  I  have  heard  tell.' 

It  was  a  wild  tale,  with  probably  but  a  slight  foun- 
dation of  truth.  Yet  no  wonder  that  the  idea  came 
like  a  ray  of  hope  and  light  to  the  despairing  wife. 

One  more  application  to  her  family  was  made  for  a 
trifling  sum  of  money ;  but  the  disgrace  she  had  heaped 
upon  them  was  the  reproach  which  alone  she  received 
for  answer.  In  truth,  it  did  seem  that,  on  the  public 
exposure  consequent  on  Arthur  Williams's  trial,  two 
worldly  su-itors  of  her  worldly  sisters  had  each  cleverly 
contrived  to  evade  his  engagement,  or  rather  the  fulfil- 


THE    NEGLECTKD    CHILD.  317 

ment  of  something  that  was  implied  as  one,  if  not 
positively  so,  rather  than  make  such  a  '  disgraceful 
connection.'  Darkly  and  strangely,  in  blighting  the 
prospects  of  their  best-loved  children,  worked  the 
instrument  which  their  own  faults  had  prepared  where- 
with to  scourge  them. 

It  was  a  dull  and  chill  December  day  when  a  certain 
convict-ship,  freighted  with  guilt  and  misery,  weighed 
anchor.  The  wind  was  fair,  the  sails  were  spread,  and 
rapidly  did  it  lessen  to  a  speck  on  the  horizon.  Yet 
for  many  a  weary  hour  a  small  boat  followed  in  its 
track.  It  contained  only  two  rowers,  with  a  young 
woman  and  her  infant.  It  was  Margaret  and  her  child, 
the  sale  of  the  long-preserved  watch  having  afforded 
her  the  means  of  casting  all  her  earthly  future  on  the 
hazard  of  one  chance. 

But  the  day  was  waning,  and  the  rough-mannered 
yet  kind-hearted  rowers  exchanged  significant  glances. 
They  felt  the  chase  was  hopeless,  but  they  knew  the 
motive  of  the  pursuit,  and  were  willing  to  strain  every 
nerve  to  reach  the  vessel.  Yet  the  thing  was  impossible, 
and  gradually  the  dreadful  truth  dawned  on  the  mind 
of  the  desolate  being  before  them.  Never  have  those 
weather-beaten  sailors  forgotten  her  countenance.  She 
seemed  stunned  with  despair ;  they  say  that  twice  or 
thrice  a  single  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek,  falling  upon 
her  poor  sickly  baby's  face  ;  but  there  was  no  violent 
demonstration  of  her  grief.  They  remembered,  too, 
that  for  a  long  time  she  looked  fixedly  at  the  infant, 
while  it,  unconscious  creature,  faintly  smiled,  playing 
with  a  band  of  its  young  mother's  grey  hair  which  had 
escaped  from  its  confinement.     How  the  ocean  had 


318  ENGLISH    TALES    AND    SKETCHES. 

been  linked  with  her  latter  destiny  !  The  meeting  with 
him  who  had  ruled  it ;  the  dream  of  passing  over  its 
friendly  bosom  to  a  friendly  land  which  they  had  both 
so  often  cherished  ;  and  now,  tlie  horror  of  reality,  the 
blank  of  despair !  Did  she  think  of  all  these  things  ? 
None  can  tell.  But  Margaret's  nature  was  a  fond  and 
affectionate  one.  By  affection  in  childhood,  she  might 
have  been  governed  ;  by  misplaced  affection  in  after- 
years,  her  fate  was  sealed.  Let  charity  believe  that 
reason  sank  beneath  the  stroke  of  anguish  '  more  great 
than  she  could  bear  ! ' 

Suddenly,  too  suddenly  for  prevention  on  the  part  of 
her  companions,  poor  Margaret,  clasping  still  her  infant 
firmly  in  her  arms,  leaped  from  the  boat,  and  in  life 
was  seen  no  more.  A  large  steamer,  freighted  with 
many  a  joyous  heart,  at  the  moment,  was  near ;  and 
although  this  multiplied  the  attempts  at  a  rescue,  the 
swell  of  the  water  caused  by  the  paddles  rendered  it 
more  difficult.  The  bodies  were  not  found  for  hours. 
Besides  the  depositions  of  the  two  rowers,  many  from 
the  deck  of  that  stately  vessel  witnessed  the  suicide  : 
there  could  be  no  misinterpretation  of  the  fact.  It 
was  another  brief  chronicle,  a  deep  tragedy,  added 
to  the  many  which  crowd  our  newspapers,  and  of 
which  the  happy  and  prosperous  t(^o  rarely  investigate 
the  causes. 


•us  top  r 


THE    END. 


1^ 


hvt 


A    ooi-35ri"l  f 


